IRLF 


ft. 


ffilliam  A.  S.  KendaL 


THE  LONESOME  TRAIL 


Drawn  by  F.  E.  Schoonover 

THE    RACE   WITH    THE   FIRE 

.See  "The  Nemesis  of  the  Deuces,"  page  :'>0\ 


THE 

LONESOME 
TRAIL 


BY 
JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 


"  In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud." 


NEW  YORK  :   JOHN  LANE  COMPANY,  MCMVII 
LONDON  :    JOHN    LANE,    THE    BODLEY    HEAD 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 

BY 
JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 


PS3B27 


TO 

VOLNEY  STREAMER 
"  Friend  of  my   Yester-age  ' 


M555071 


The  stories  in  this  volume  have  appeared  in  the 
following  magazines:  Munsey's,  The  American 
Magazine,  The  Smart  Set,  The  Scrap  Book,  The 
All-Story,  Watsons,  Overland  Monthly.  The 
author  gratefully  acknowledges  permission  to  re- 
publish. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  ALIEN n 

II.  THE  LOOK  IN  THE  FACE          .         .         .  31 

III.  FEATHER  FOR  FEATHER    ....  45 

IV.  THE  SCARS     .         .         .         ...  58 

V.  THE  FADING  OF  SHADOW  FLOWER     .         .  75 

VI.  THE  ART  OF  HATE           ...  .       93 

VII.  THE  SINGER  OF  THE  ACHE      .      ,  .  .     no 

VIII.  THE  WHITE  WAKUNDA            .      •  V  .     123 

IX.  THE  TRIUMPH  OF  SEHA          .         .  .     143 

X.  THE  END  OF  THE  DREAM        .        'V  .     151 

XL  THE  REVOLT  OF  A  SHEEP          .         .  .     168 

XII.  THE  MARK  OF  SHAME    .         .         .  .182 

XIII.  THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS  .  .     194 

XIV.  DREAMS  ARE  WISER  THAN  MEN        .  .     204 
XV.  THE  SMILE  OF  GOD        .         .         .  .219 

XVI.  THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN        .         .         .229 

XVII.  MIGNON 239 

XVIII.  A  POLITICAL  COUP  AT  LITTLE  OMAHA       .     255 

XIX.  THE  LAST  THUNDER  SONG      .         .         .276 

XX.  THE  NEMESIS  OF  THE  DEUCES  ...        .     288 


THE  OLD  CRY 

O  Mourner  in  the  silence  of  the  hills, 

0  Thing  of  ancient  griefs,  art  thou  a  wolff 

1  heard  a  cry  that  shook  me — was  it  thine? 

Low  in  the  mystic  purple  of  the  west 
The  weird  moon  hangs,  a  tarnished  silver  slug: 
Vast,  vast  the  hollow  empty  night  curves  down, 
Stabbed  with  the  glass-like  glinting  of  the  stars, 
And,  save  when  that  wild  cry  grows  up  anon, 
No  sound  but  this  dull  murmur  of  the  hush — 
The  winter  hush. 

Hark!  once  again  thy  cry! 
Thy  strange,  sharp,  ice-like,  tenuous  complaint, 
As  though  the  spirit  of  this  frozen  waste 
Pinched  with  the  cruel  frost  yearned  summerward! 

1  know  thou  art  a  wolf  that  criest  so: 
Though  hidden  in  the  shadow,  I  can  see 
Thy  four  feet  huddled  in  the  numbing  frost, 
Thy  snout,  breath-whitened,  pointing  to  the  sky: 
Poor  pariah  of  the  plains,  I  know  'tis  thou. 

And  yet — and  yet — I  heard  a  kinsman  shout! 

Down  through  the  intricate  centuries  it  came, 

A  far-blown  cry!    From  old-world  graves  it  grew, 

Up  through  the  tumbled  walls  of  ancient  realms, 

Up  through  the  lizard-haunted  heaps  of  stone, 

Up  through  the  choking  ashes  of  old  fanes, 

The  pitiful  debris  where  Grandeur  dwelt, 

Out  of  the  old-world  wilderness  it  grew — 

The  cry  I  know!    And  I  have  heard  my  Kin! 


THE  ALIEN 

THROUGH  the  quiet  night,  crystalline  with 
the  pervading  spirit  of  the  frost,  under 
prairie  skies  of  mystic  purple  pierced  with 
the  glass-like  glinting  of  the  stars,  fled  Antoine. 

Huge  and  hollow-sounding  with  the  clatter  of  the 
pinto's  hoofs  hung  the  night  above  and  about — lone 
some,  empty,  bitter  as  the  soul  of  him  who  fled. 

A  weary  age  of  flight  since  sunset;  and  now  the 
midnight  saw  the  thin-limbed,  long-haired  pony 
slowly  losing  his  nerve,  tottering,  rasping  in  the 
throat.  With  pitiless  spike-spurred  heels  the  rider 
hurled  the  beast  into  the  empty  night. 

"  Gwan !  you  blasted  cayuse !  you  overgrown  wolf- 
dog  !  you  pot-bellied  shonga !  Keep  up  that  tune ; 
I'm  goin'  somewheres.  What'd  I  steal  you  fer? 
Pleasure?  He,  he,  he,  ho,  ho,  ho!  I  reckon;  pleas 
ure  for  the  half-breed !  Gwan !  " 

Suddenly  rounding  a  bank  of  sand,  the  pinto 
sighted  the  broad,  ice-bound  river,  an  elysian  stream 
of  glinting  silver  under  the  stars.  Sniffing  and 
crouching  upon  its  haunches  at  the  sudden  glow  that 
dwindled  a  gleaming  thread  into  the  further  dusk, 
the  jaded  beast  received  a  series  of  vicious  jabs  from 
the  spike-spurred  heels.  It  groaned  and  lunged  for- 

ii 


12  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

ward  again,  taking  with  uncertain  feet  the  glaring 
path  ahead,  and  awakening  dull,  snarling  thunder  in 
the  under  regions  of  the  ice.  Slipping,  struggling, 
doing  its  brute  best  to  overcome  fatigue  and  the  un 
certainty  of  its  path,  the  pinto  covered  the  ice. 

"  Doin'  a  war  dance,  eh?  "  growled  the  man  with 
bitter  mirth,  and  gouging  the  foaming  bloody  flanks 
of  the  animal.  "  Gwan!  Set  up  that  tune;  I  want 
fast  music,  'cause  I'm  goin'  somewheres — don't  know 
where — somewheres  out  there  in  the  shadders !  Come 
here,  will  you  ?  Take  that  and  that  and  that  I  Now 
will  you  kick  the  scen'ry  back'ards  ?  By  the !  " 

The  brutal  cries  of  the  man  were  cut  short  as  he 
shot  far  over  the  pommel,  lunging  headlong  over  the 
pinto's  head,  and  striking  with  head  and  shoulders 
upon  the  glare  ice.  When  he  stopped  sliding  he  lay 
very  still  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he  groaned, 
sat  up,  and  found  that  the  bluffs  and  the  river  and  the 
stars  and  the  universe  in  general  were  whirling  gid 
dily,  with  himself  for  the  dizzy  centre. 

With  uncertain  arms  he  reached  out,  endeavouring 
to  check  the  sickening  motion  of  things  with  the  sheer 
force  of  his  powerful  hands.  He  was  thrown  down 
like  a  weakling  wrestling  with  a  giant.  He  lay  still, 
cursing  in  a  whisper,  trying  to  steady  the  universe, 
until  the  motion  passed,  leaving  in  his  nerves  the 
sickening  sensation  incident  to  the  sudden  ending  of  a 
rapid  flight. 

With  great  care  Antoine  raised  himself  upon  his 
elbows  and  gazed  about  with  an  imbecile  leer.  Then 


THE    ALIEN  13 

he  began  to  remember;  remembered  that  he  was 
hunted;  that  he  was  an  outcast,  a  man  of  no  race; 
remembered  dimly,  and  with  a  malignant  grin,  a  por 
tion  of  a  long  series  of  crimes  ;  remembered  that  the 
last  was  horse-stealing  and  that  some  of  the  others 
concerned  blood.  And  as  he  remembered,  he  felt 
with  horrible  distinctness  the  lariat  tightening  about 
his  neck  —  the  lariat  that  the  men  of  Cabanne's  trad 
ing  post  were  bringing  on  fleet  horses,  nearer,  nearer, 
nearer  through  the  silent  night. 

Antoine  shuddered  and  got  to  his  feet,  looming 
huge  against  the  star-sprent  surface  of  the  ice,  as  he 
turned  a  face  of  bestial  malevolence  down  trail  and 
listened  for  the  beat  of  hoofs.  There  was  only  the 
dim,  hollow  murmur  that  dwells  at  the  heart  of 
silence. 

"  Got  a  long  start,"  he  observed,  with  the  chuckle 
of  a  man  whom  desperation  has  made  careless. 


A  pale,  semicircular  glow,  like  the  flare  of  a  burn 
ing  straw  stack  a  half  day's  journey  over  the  hills, 
had  grown  up  at  the  horizon  of  the  east;  and  as  the 
man  stared,  still  in  a  maze  from  his  recent  fall,  the 
moon  heaved  a  tarnished  silver  arc  above  the  mystic 
rim  of  sky,  flooding  with  new  light  the  river  and  the 
bluffs.  The  man  stood  illumined  —  a  big  brute  of  a 
man,  heavy-limbed,  massive-shouldered,  with  the 
slouching  stoop  and  the  alert  air  of  an  habitual 
skulker.  He  moved  uneasily,  as  though  he  had 
suddenly  become  visible  to  some  lurking  foe.  He 


i4  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

glanced  nervously  about  him,  fumbled  at  the  butt 
of  a  six-shooter  at  his  belt,  then  catching  sight  of 
the  blotch  of  huddled  dusk  that  was  the  fallen  pinto, 
the  meaning  of  the  situation  flashed  upon  him. 

"  That  cussed  cayuse !  Gone  and  done  hisself  like 
as  not!  Damn  me!  the  whole  creation  's  agin 
me!" 

He  made  for  the  pony,  snarling  viciously  as  though 
its  exhausted,  lacerated  self  were  the  visible  body  of 
the  inimical  universe.  He  grasped  the  reins  and 
jerked  them  violently.  The  brute  only  groaned  and 
let  its  weary  head  fall  heavily  upon  the  ice. 

"Get  up!" 

Antoine  began  kicking  the  pony  in  the  ribs,  bring 
ing  forth  great  hollow  bellowings  of  pain. 

"  O,  you  won't  get  up,  eh?  Agin  me  too,  eh?  Take 
that,  and  that  and  that!  I  wished  you  was  everybody 
in  the  whole  world  and  hell  to  oncet,  I'd  make  you 
beller  now  I  got  you  down !  Take  that!  " 

The  man  with  a  roar  of  anger  fell  upon  the  pony, 
snarling,  striking,  kicking,  but  the  pony  only  groaned. 
Its  limbs  could  no  longer  support  its  body.  When 
Antoine  had  exhausted  his  rage,  he  got  up,  gave  the 
pony  a  parting  kick  on  the  nose,  and  started  off  at 
a  dogtrot  across  the  glinting  ice  towards  the  bluffs 
beyond. 

Ever  and  anon  he  stopped  and  whirled  about  with 
hand  at  ear.  He  heard  only  the  sullen  murmur  of 
the  silence,  broken  occasionally  by  the  whine  and  pop 
of  the  ice  and  the  plaintive,  bitter  wail  of  the  coyotes 


OTHE    ALIEN  15 

somewhere  in  the  hills,  like  the  heartbroken  cry  of 
the  lonesome  prairie,  yearning  for  the  summer. 

"  O,  I  wouldn't  howl  if  I  was  you,"  muttered  the 
man  to  the  coyotes;  "  I  wished  I  was  a  coyote  or  a 
grey  wolf,  knowin'  what  I  do.  I'd  be  a  man-killer 
and  a  cattle-killer,  I  would.  And  then  I'd  have  peo 
ple  of  my  own.  Wouldn't  be  no  cur  of  a  half-breed 
runnin'  from  his  kind.  O,  I  wouldn't  howl  if  I  was 
you!" 

He  proceeded  at  a  swinging  trot  across  the  half 
mile  of  ice  and  halted  under  the  bluffs.  He  listened 
intently.  A  far  sound  had  grown  up  in  the  hollow 
night — vague,  but  unmistakable.  It  was  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  far  away,  but  clear  in  faintness,  for  the  cold 
snap  had  made  the  prairie  one  vast  sounding-board. 
A  light  snow  had  fallen  the  night  before,  and  the 
trail  of  the  refugee  was  traced  in  the  moonlight,  dis 
tinct  as  a  wagon  track. 

Antoine  felt  the  pitiless  pinch  of  the  approaching 
lariat  as  he  listened.  Then  his  accustomed  bitter 
weariness  of  life  came  upon  the  pariah. 

"  What's  the  use  of  me  runnin'  ?  What  am  I  run 
nin'  to?  Nothin' — only  more  of  the  same  thing  I'm 
runnin'  from;  lonesomeness  and  hunger  and  the  like 
of  that.  Gettin'  awake  stiff  and  cold  and  half  starved 
and  cussin'  the  daylight  'cause  it's  agin  me  like  every 
thing  else,  and  gives  me  away.  Sneakin'  around  in 
the  brush  till  dark,  eatin'  when  I  can  like  a  damned 
wolf,  then  goin'  to  sleep  hopin'  it'll  never  get  day. 
But  it  always  does.  It's  all  night  somewheres,  I  guess, 


1 6  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

spite  of  what  the  missionaries  says.  That's  fer  me — 
night  always!  No  comin'  day,  no  gettin'  up,  some 
where  to  hide  snug  in  always !  " 

He  walked  on  with  head  dropped  forward  upon 
his  breast,  skirting  the  base  of  the  bluffs,  now  seem 
ingly  oblivious  of  the  sound  of  hoofs  that  grew  mo 
mently  more  distinct. 

As  he  walked,  he  was  dimly  conscious  of  passing 
the  dark  mouth  of  a  hole  running  back  into  the  clay 
of  a  bluff.  He  proceeded  until  he  found  himself 
again  at  the  edge  of  the  river,  staring  down  into  a 
broad,  black  fissure  in  the  ice,  caused,  doubtless,  by 
the  dash  of  the  current  crossing  from  the  other  side. 

A  terrible,  dark,  but  alluring  thought  seized  him. 
Here  was  the  place — the  doorway  to  that  place 
where  it  was  always  night !  Why  not  go  in  ?  There 
would  be  no  more  running  away,  no  more  hiding,  no 
more  hatred  of  men,  no  more  lonesomeness !  Here 
was  the  place  at  last. 

He  stepped  forward  and  stooped  to  gaze  down  into 
the  door  of  night.  The  rushing  waters  made  a  dis 
mal,  moaning  sound. 

He  stared  transfixed.    Yes,  he  would  go! 

Suddenly  a  shudder  ran  through  his  limbs.  He 
gave  a  quick  exclamation  of  terror !  He  leaped  back 
and  raised  his  face  to  the  skies. 

How  kind  and  soft  and  gentle  and  good  to  look 
upon  was  the  sky !  He  gazed  about — it  was  so  fair 
a  world !  How  good  it  was  to  breathe !  He  longed 
to  throw  his  great,  brute  arms  about  creation  and 


THE    ALIEN  17 

clutch  it  to  him,  and  hold  it,  hold  it,  hold  it!  He 
wished  to  live. 

The  hoofs! 

The  distant  muffled  confusion  of  sound  had  grown 
into  sharp,  distinct,  staccato  notes.  The  pursuers 
were  now  less  than  a  mile  away.  Soon  they  would 
reach  the  river. 

With  the  quick  instinct  of  the  hunted  beast,  An- 
toine  knew  the  means  of  safety.  His  footprints  led 
to  the  ice-fissure.  He  decided  that  none  should  lead 
away.  He  could  not  be  pursued  under  ice.  Stooping 
so  that  he  could  look  between  his  legs,  he  began  re 
tracing  his  steps,  walking  backward,  placing  his  feet 
with  infinite  care  where  they  had  fallen  before.  Thus 
he  came  again  to  the  hole  in  the  clay  bluff,  and  dis 
appeared.  His  trail  had  passed  within  a  foot  of  the 
hole,  which  was  overhung  by  a  jutting  point  of  sand 
stone.  No  snow  had  fallen  at  the  entrance;  he  left 
no  trail  as  he  entered. 

Stopping  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  he  listened  and 
could  hear  distinctly  the  sharp  crack  of  hoofs  upon  the 
ice  and  the  pop  and  thunder  of  the  frozen  surface. 

"  Here's  some  luck,"  muttered  Antoine.  He 
crawled  on  into  the  nether  darkness  of  the  hole  that 
grew  more  spacious  as  he  proceeded.  As  he  crawled, 
the  sound  of  pursuing  hoofs  grew  dimmer.  Antoine 
half  forgot  them.  His  keen  sense  had  caught  the 
peculiar  musty  odour  of  animal  life.  He  felt  ai  stuffy 
warmth  in  his  nostrils  as  he  breathed. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  dark  ahead  grew  up  two  points 


1 8  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

of  phosphorescent  light.  Antoine  fell  back  upon  his 
haunches  with  a  little  growl  of  surprise  in  his  throat. 
Years  of  wild  lonesome  life  had  made  him  more  beast 
than  man. 

The  lights  slowly  came  closer,  growing  more  bril 
liant.  Then  there  was  a  harsh,  rasping  growl  and  a 
sound  of  sniffing.  Antoine  waited  until  the  expand 
ing  pupils  of  his  eyes  could  grasp  the  situation  with 
more  distinctness.  "  Can't  run,"  he  mused.  "  Lariat 
behind,  somethin'  growlin'  in  front.  It's  one  more 
fight.  Here  goes  fer  my  damnedest.  Rather  die 
mad  and  fightin'  than  jump  into  cold  water  or  stick 
my  head  through  a  rawhide  necktie !  " 

He  crawled  on  carefully.  The  lights  approached 
with  a  strange  swaying  motion.  Then  of  a  sudden 
came  a  whine,  a  sharp,  savage  yelp,  and  Antoine  felt 
his  cheek  ripped  open  with  a  stroke  of  gnashing 
teeth ! 

He  felt  for  an  instant  the  hot  breath  of  the  beast, 
the  trickle  of  hot  blood  on  his  cheek;  and  then  all 
that  was  human  in  him  passed.  He  growled  and 
hurled  the  sinewy  body  of  his  unseen  foe  from  him 
with  a  blow  of  his  bear-like  paw.  He  was  a  big  man, 
and  in  his  blood  the  primitive  beast  had  grown  large 
through  long  years  of  lonesome  hiding  from  his 
kind. 

The  dark  hole  echoed  a  muffled  howl  of  anger,  and 
in  an  instant  man  and  beast  rolled  together  in  the 
darkness.  It  was  a  primitive  struggle;  the  snapping 
of  jaws,  the  rasping  of  hoarse  throats  that  laboured 


THE   ALIEN  19 

with  angry  breath,  snarlings  of  hate,  yelps  of  pain, 
growls,  whines. 

At  last  the  man  knew  that  it  was  a  grey  wolf  he 
fought.  He  reached  for  its  throat,  but  felt  his  hand 
caught  in  a  hot,  wet,  powerful  trap  of  teeth.  He 
grasped  the  under  jaw  with  a  grip  that  made  his  an 
tagonist  howl  with  pain.  Then  with  his  other  hand 
he  felt  about  in  the  darkness,  groping  for  the  throat. 

He  found  it,  seized  it  with  a  vice-like  clutch,  shut 
his  teeth  together,  and  threw  all  of  the  power  of  his 
massive  frame  into  the  struggle. 

Slowly,  slowly,  the  struggles  of  the  wolf  became 
weaker.  The  lean,  hairy  form  fell  limply,  and  the 
man  laughed  with  a  strange,  sobbing,  guttural  mirth 
— for  he  was  master. 

Then  again  he  felt  the  trickle  of  blood  upon  his 
cheek,  the  ache  of  his  bitten  hand.  His  anger  re 
turned  with  double  fury.  He  kicked  the  limp  body 
as  he  lay  beside  it,  never  releasing  his  grip. 

Suddenly  he  forgot  to  kick.  There  were  sounds  1 
He  heard  the  thump  thump  of  hoofs  passing  his  place 
of  refuge.  Then  they  ceased.  There  were  sounds  of 
voices  coming  dimly;  then  after  a  while  the  hoofs 
passed  again,  and  there  was  a  voice  that  said  "  saved 
hangin'  anyway." 

The  hoof  beats  grew  dimmer,  and  Antoine  knew 
by  their  hollow  sound  that  his  pursuers  had  begun  to 
cross  the  ice  on  the  back  trail.  He  again  gave  his 
attention  to  the  wolf.  It  lay  very  still.  A  feeling 
of  supreme  comfort  came  over  Antoine.  It  was 


20  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

sweet  to  be  a  master.  He  laid  his  head  upon  the 
wolf's  motionless  body.  He  was  very  weary,  he  had 
conquered,  and  he  would  sleep  upon  his  prey. 

He  awoke  feeling  a  warm,  rasping  something  upon 
his  wounded  cheek.  A  faint  light  came  in  at  the 
entrance  of  the  place.  It  was  morning.  In  his  sleep 
Antoine  had  moved  his  head  close  to  the  muzzle  of 
the  wolf.  Now,  utterly  conquered,  bruised,  unable 
to  arise,  the  brute  was  feebly  licking  the  blood  from 
the  man's  wound. 

Antoine's  sense  of  mastery  after  his  sound  sleep 
made  him  kind  for  once.  He  was  safe  and  something 
had  caressed  him,  altho'  it  was  only  a  soundly-beaten 
wolf. 

"  You  pore  devil!"  said  Antoine  with  a  sudden 
softness  in  his  voice;  "  I  done  you  up,  didn't  I?  You 
hain't  so  bad,  I  guess;  but  if  I  hadn't  done  you,  I'd 
got  done  myself.  Hurt  much,  you  pore  devil,  eh?  " 

He  stroked  the  side  of  the  animal,  whereupon  it 
cried  out  with  pain. 

"  Pretty  sore,  eh?  Well  as  long  as  I'm  bigger'n 
you,  I'll  be  good  to  you,  I  will.  I  ain't  so  bad,  am 
I  ?  You  treat  me  square  and  you  won't  never  get  no 
bad  deals  from  the  half-breed;  mind  that.  Hel-/o/ 
you're  a  Miss  Wolf,  ain't  you?  Well,  for  the  present, 
I'm  a  Mister  Wolf,  and  I'm  a  good  un!  Let  me 
hunt  you  up  a  name;  somethin'  soft  like  a  woman, 
'cause  you  did  touch  me  kind  of  tender  like.  Susette! 
— that's  it — Susette.  You're  Susette  now.  I  hain't 
got  no  people,  so  I'm  a  wolf  from  now  on,  and  my 


THE    ALIEN  21 

name's  Antoine.  Susette  and  Antoine — sounds  pretty 
good,  don't  it?  Say,  I  know  as  much  about  bein'  a 
wolf  as  you  do.  Can't  teach  me  nothin'  about  sneak- 
in'  and  hidin'  and  fightin' !  Say,  old  girl,  hain't  I  a 
tol'able  good  fighter  now?  O,  I  know  I  am,  and 
when  you  need  it  again,  you're  goin'  to  get  it  good 
and  hard,  Susette;  mind  that.  Hain't  got  nothin'  to 
eat  about  the  house,  have  you,  old  girl?  Then,  bein' 
head  of  the  family  with  a  sick  woman  about,  I'm 
goin'  huntin'.  Don't  you  let  no  other  wolf  come 
skulkin'  around!  You  know  me!  I'll  wear  his  skin 
when  I  come  back,  if  you  don't  mind!  " 

And  he  went  out. 

Before  noon  he  returned  bringing  three  jack  rab 
bits,  having  shot  them  with  his  six-shooter.  "  Well, 
Susette,"  said  he,  "  got  any  appetite?  " 

He  passed  his  hand  over  the  wolf's  snout  caress 
ingly.  The  wolf  flinched  in  fear,  but  the  man  con 
tinued  his  caresses  until  she  licked  his  hand. 

"  Now  we're  friends  and  we  can  live  together 
peaceable,  can't  we  ?  Took  a  big  family  row,  though. 
Families  needs  stirrin'  up  now  and  then,  I  reckon." 

He  skinned  a  rabbit  and  cut  off  morsels  of  meat. 

"  Here,  Susette,  I'm  goin'  to  fill  your  hide  first, 
'cause  you've  been  so  good  since  the  row  that  I'm 
half  beginnin'  to  love  you  a  little.  There,  that's  it — 
eat.  Does  me  good  to  see  you  eat,  pore,  sick 
Susette!" 

The  wolf  took  the  morsels  from  his  hand  and  a 
look  almost  tame  came  into  her  eyes.  When  she  had 


22  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

eaten  a  rabbit,  Antoine  had  a  meal  of  raw  flesh.  Then 
he  sat  down  beside  her  and  stroked  her  nose  and  neck 
and  flanks.  There  was  an  air  of  home  about  the 
place.  He  was  safe  and  sheltered,  had  a  full  stomach, 
and  there  was  a  fellow  creature  near  him  that  showed 
kindness,  altho'  it  had  been  won  with  a  beating.  But 
this  man  had  long  been  accustomed  to  possessing  by 
violence,  and  he  was  satisfied. 

"  Susette,"  he  said  in  a  soft  voice;  "  don't  get  mean 
again  when  you  get  well.  I  want  to  live  quiet  and 
like  somethin'  that  likes  me  oncet.  If  you'll  be  good, 
I'll  get  you  rabbits  and  antelope  and  birds,  and  you 
won't  need  to  hunt  no  more  nor  go  about  with  your 
belly  flappin'  together.  And  I  know  how  to  make  fire 
— somethin'  you  don't  know,  wise  as  you  be ;  and  I'll 
keep  you  warm  and  pet  you. 

"Is  it  a  bargain?  All  you  need  to  do  is  just  be 
good,  keep  in'  your  teeth  out'n  my  cheek.  I've  been 
lonesome  always.  I  hain't  got  no  people.  Do  you 
know  who  your  dad  was,  Susette?  Neither  do  I. 
Some  French  trader  was  mine,  I  guess.  We're  in  the 
same  boat  there.  My  mother  was  an  Omaha.  O 
Susette,  I  know  what  it  means  to  set  a  stranger  in  my 
mother's  lodge.  '  Wagah  peazzha! '  [no  good 
white  man],  that's  what  the  Omahas  called  me  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  feller.  And  the  white  men  said 
1  damn  Injun.'  And  where  am  I  ?  O,  hangin'  onto 
the  edge  of  things,  gettin'  ornry  and  nasty  and  bad ! 
I've  stole  horses  and  killed  people  and  cussed  fer 
days,  Susette.  And  I  want  to  rest;  I  want  to  love 


THE   ALIEN  23 

somethin'.  Cabanne's  men  down  at  the  post  would 
laugh  to  hear  me  sayin'  that.  But  I  do.  I  want  to 
love  somethin'.  Tried  to  oncet;  her  name  was 
Susette,  jest  like  your'n.  She  was  a  trader's  daugh 
ter — a  pretty  French  girl.  That  was  before  I  got 
bad.  I  talked  sweet  to  her  like  I'm  a  talkin'  to  you, 
and  she  kind  of  liked  it.  But  the  old  man  Lecroix — 
that  was  her  dad — he  showed  me  the  trail  and  he 
says :  *  Go  that  way  and  go  fast,  you  damn  Injun ! ' 

"  I  went,  Susette,  but  I  made  him  pay,  I  did.  I 
seen  him  on  his  back  a-grinnin'  straight  up  at  the 
stars;  and  since  then  I  hain't  cared  much.  I  killed 
several  after  that,  and  I  called  'em  all  Lecroix! 

"  Be  a  good  girl,  Susette,  and  I'll  stick  to  you.  I'm 
a  good  fighter,  you  know,  and  I'm  a  good  grub-hun 
ter,  too.  I  learned  all  that  easy." 

He  continued  caressing  the  wolf,  and  she  licked  his 
hand  when  he  stroked  her  muzzle. 

Days  passed;  the  winter  deepened;  the  heavy  snows 
came.  Antoine  nursed  his  bruised  companion  back 
to  health.  Through  the  bitter  nights  he  kept  a  fire 
burning  at  the  entrance  of  the  hole.  The  depth  of 
the  snow  made  it  improbable  that  any  should  learn 
his  whereabouts ;  and  by  that  time  the  news  must  have 
spread  from  post  to  post  that  Antoine,  the  outlaw 
half-breed,  had  drowned  himself  in  the  ice-fissure. 

The  man  had  used  all  his  ammunition,  and  his  six- 
shooter  had  thus  become  useless.  With  the  skill  of 
an  Indian  he  wrought  a  bow  and  arrows.  He  made 
snowshoes  and  continued  to  hunt,  keeping  the  wolf 


24  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

in  meat  until  she  grew  strong  and  fat  with  the  unac 
customed  luxurious  life. 

Also  she  became  very  tame.  During  her  weakness 
the  man  had  subdued  her,  and  through  the  long 
nights  she  lay  nestled  within  the  man's  great  arms  and 
slept. 

When  the  snow  became  crusted,  Antoine  and 
Susette  went  hunting  together,  she  trotting  at  his  heels 
like  a  dog.  To  her  he  had  come  to  be  only  an  un 
usually  large  wolf — a  masterful  male,  a  good  fighter, 
strong  to  kill,  a  taker  of  his  own. 

One  evening  in  late  December,  when  the  low  moon 
threw  a  shaft  of  cold  silver  into  the  mouth  of  the 
lair,  Antoine  lay  huddled  in  his  furs,  listening  to  the 
long,  dirge-like  calls  of  the  wolves  wandering  inward 
from  the  vast  pitiless  night.  Susette  also  listened, 
sitting  upon  her  haunches  beside  the  man  with  her 
ears  pricked  forward.  When  the  far  away  cries  of 
her  kinspeople  arose  into  a  compelling  major  sound, 
dying  away  into  the  merest  shadow  of  a  pitiful  minor, 
she  switched  her  tail  uneasily,  shuffled  about  nerv 
ously,  sniffing  and  whining. 

Then  she  began  pacing  with  an  eager  swing  up  and 
down  the  place  to  the  opening  and  back  to  the  man, 
sending  forth  the  cry  of  kinship  whenever  she 
reached  the  moonlit  entrance. 

"Night's  cold,  Susette,"  said  Antoine;  "  tain't  no 
time  fer  huntin'.  Hain't  I  give  you  enough  to  eat? 
Come  here  and  snuggle  up  and  let's  sleep." 

He  caught  the  wolf  and  with  main  force  held  her 


THE    ALIEN  25 

down  beside  him.  She  snarled  savagely  and  snapped 
her  jaws  together,  struggling  out  of  his  arms  and 
going  to  the  opening  where  she  cried  out  into  the 
frozen  stillness.  The  answer  of  her  kind  floated  back 
in  doleful  chorus. 

"  Don't  go !  "  begged  the  man.  "  Susette,  my 
pretty  Susette!  I'll  be  so  lonesome." 

As  the  chorus  died,  the  wolf  gave  a  loud  yelp  and 
rushed  out  into  the  night.  A  terrible  rage  seized  An- 
toine.  He  leaped  from  his  furs  and  ran  out  after 
the  wolf.  She  fled  with  a  rapid,  swinging  trot  over 
the  scintillating  snow  toward  the  concourse  of  her 
people.  The  man  fled  after,  slipping,  falling,  getting 
up,  running,  running,  and  ever  the  wolf  widened  the 
glittering  stretch  of  snow  between  them.  To  An- 
toine,  the  ever-widening  space  of  glinting  coldness 
vaguely  symbolised  the  barrier  that  seemed  growing 
between  him  and  his  last  companion. 

"  Susette,  O,  Susette !  "  he  cried  at  last,  breathless 
and  exhausted.  His  cry  was  dirgelike,  even  as  the 
wolves' ;  thin  and  sharp  and  icelike — the  voice  of  the 
old  world-ache. 

She  had  disappeared  in  the  dusk  of  a  ravine.  An- 
toine,  huddled  in  the  snows  with  his  face  upon  his 
knees,  sobbed  in  the  winter  stillness.  At  last,  with 
slow  and  faltering  step,  he  returned  to  his  lair;  and 
for  the  first  time  in  months  he  felt  the  throat-pang 
of  the  alien. 

He  threw  himself  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  cave 
and  cursed  the  world.  Then  he  cursed  Susette. 


26  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

"  It's  some  other  wolf!  "  he  hissed.  "  Some  other 
grey  dog  that  she's  gone  to  see.  O,,  damn  him !  damn 
his  grey  hide!  I'll  kill  her  when  she  comes  back!  " 

He  took  out  his  knife  and  began  whetting  it 
viciously  upon  his  boot. 

"  I'll  cut  her  into  strips  and  eat  'em !  Wasn't  I 
good  to  her?  O,  I'll  cut  her  into  strips!  " 

He  whetted  his  knife  for  an  hour,  cursing  the 
while  through  his  set  teeth.  At  last  his  anger  grew 
into  a  foolish  madness.  He  hurled  himself  upon  the 
bunch  of  furs  beside  him  and  imagined  that  they  were 
Susette.  He  set  his  teeth  into  the  furs,  he  crushed 
them  with  his  hands,  he  tore  at  them  with  his  nails. 
Then  in  the  impotence  of  his  anger,  he  fell  upon  his 
face  and  sobbed  himself  to  sleep. 

Strange  visions  passed  before  him.  Again  he 
killed  Lecroix,  and  saw  the  dead  face  grinning  at  the 
stars.  Again  he  sat  in  his  mother's  lodge  and  wept 
because  he  was  a  stranger.  Again  he  was  fleeing, 
fleeing,  fleeing  from  a  leather  noose  that  hung  above 
him  like  a  black  cloud,  and  circled  and  lowered  and 
raised  and  lowered  until  it  swooped  down  upon  him 
and  closed  about  his  neck. 

With  a  yell  of  fright  he  awoke  from  his  night 
mare.  His  head  throbbed,  his  mouth  was  parched. 
At  last  day  came  in  sneakingly  through  the  opening — 
a  dull,  melancholy  light;  and  with  it  came  Susette, 
sniffing,  with  the  bristles  of  her  neck  erect. 

"  Susette!     Susette!  "  cried  the  man  joyfully. 

He  no  longer  thought  of  killing  her.     He  seized 


THE   ALIEN  27 

her  in  his  arms;  he  kissed  her  frost-whitened  muzzle; 
he  caressed  her;  he  called  her  a  woman.  She  received 
his  caresses  with  disdain.  Whereat  the  man  re 
doubled  his  acts  of  fondness.  He  fed  her  and  petted 
her  as  she  ate;  whereat  the  bristles  on  her  neck  fell. 
She  nosed  him  half  fondly. 

And  Antoine,  man-like,  was  glad  again.  He  con 
tented  himself  with  touching  the  frayed  hem  of  the 
garment  of  Happiness. 

He  ate  none  that  day.  He  said  to  himself,  "  I 
won't  hunt  till  it's  all  gone;  she  can  have  it  all."  He 
was  afraid  to  leave  Susette.  He  was  afraid  to  take 
her  with  him  again  into  the  land  of  her  own  people. 
Antoine  was  jealous. 

All  day  he  was  kind  to  her  with  the  pitiful  kind 
ness  of  a  doting  lover  for  his  unfaithful  mistress. 

That  night  she  consented  to  lie  within  his  arms, 
and  Antoine  cried  softly  as  he  whispered  into  her 
ear:  "  Susette,  I  hain't  a  goin'  to  be  jealous  no  more. 
You've  been  a  bad  girl,  Susette.  Don't  do  it  again. 
I  won't  be  mean  less'n  you  let  him  come  skulkin' 
round  here,  damn  his  grey  hide !  But  O,  Susette  " — 
his  voice  was  like  a  spoken  pang — "  I  wisht — I  wisht 
I  was  that  other  wolf !  " 

The  next  morning  Antoine  did  not  get  up.  He 
felt  sore  and  exhausted.  By  evening  his  heart  was 
beating  like  a  hammer.  His  head  ached  and  swam; 
his  burning  eyes  saw  strange,  uncertain  visions. 

"  Susette,"  he  called,  "  I  hain't  quite  right;  come 
here  and  let  me  touch  you  again." 


28  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

Night  was  falling  and  Susette  sat  sullenly  apart, 
listening  for  the  call  of  her  people.  She  did  not  go 
to  him.  All  night  the  man  tossed  and  raved.  After 
a  lingering  age  of  delirious  wanderings,  dizzy  flights 
from  huge  pitiless  pursuers,  he  became  conscious  of 
the  daylight.  He  raised  his  head  feebly  and  looked 
about  the  den.  Susette  was  gone.  A  fury  of  jealousy 
again  seized  Antoine.  She  had  gone  to  that  other 
wolf — he  felt  certain  of  that.  He  tried  to  arise,  but 
the  fever  had  weakened  him  so  that  he  lay  impotently, 
torn  alternately  with  anger  and  longing. 

Suddenly  a  frost-whitened  snout  was  thrust  in  at 
the  opening.  It  was  Susette.  The  man  was  too 
weak  to  cry  out  his  joy,  but  his  eyes  filled  with  a  soft 
light. 

Susette  entered  sniffing  strangely,  whining  and 
switching  her  tail  as  she  came.  At  her  heels  followed 
another  grey  wolf — a  male,  larger-boned,  lanker, 
with  a  more  powerful  snout.  He  whined  and  moved 
his  tail  nervously  at  sight  of  the  man. 

Antoine  lay  staring  impotently  upon  the  intruder. 
"  So  that's  him,"  thought  the  man;  "  I  wisht  I  could 
get  up." 

A  delirious  anger  shook  him ;  he  struggled  to  arise, 
but  could  not.  "  O  God,"  he  moaned;  it  was  an  un 
usual  thing  for  this  man  to  say  the  word  so;  "  O  God, 
please  le'  me  get  up  and  fight !  " 

A  harsh  growl  stopped  him.  The  grey  intruder 
approached  him  with  a  rapid,  sinuous  movement  of 
the  tail.  His  jaws  grinned  hideously  with  long  sharp 


THE   ALIEN  29 

teeth  displayed.  The  rage  of  hunger  was  in  his  eyes 
fixed  steadily  upon  the  sick  man. 

Antoine  stared  steadily  into  the  glaring  eyes  of  his 
wolfish  rival,  already  crouching  for  the  spring. 

On  a  sudden,  a  strange  exhilaration  came  over  the 
man.  He  seemed  drinking  in  the  essence  of  life  from 
the  pitiless  stare  of  his  adversary.  His  great  limbs, 
seeming  devitalised  but  a  moment  before,  now  tin 
gled  to  their  extremities  with  a  sudden  surging  of  the 
wine  of  life.  His  eyes,  which  the  fever  had  burned 
into  the  dulness  of  ashes,  flamed  suddenly  again  with 
the  eager  lust  of  fight. 

He  raised  himself  upon  his  haunches,  beast-like, 
and  with  the  lifting  of  a  sneering  lip  that  disclosed  his 
grinding  teeth,  he  gave  a  cry  that  was  both  a  snarl 
and  a  sob.  In  that  moment,  these  many  centuries 
of  artificial  life  were  as  a  vanished  dream.  From  the 
long-slumbering  dust  of  the  prehistoric  cave-man 
came  a  giant  spirit  to  steel  the  sinews  of  its  far  re 
moved  and  weaker  kin. 

Antoine  met  the  impetuous  spring  of  the  wolf  with 
the  downward  blow  of  a  fist,  and  sprang  whining 
upon  his  momentarily  worsted  foe.  Never  before 
had  he  fought  in  all  his  bitter  pariah  life  as  now  he 
fought  for  the  possession  of  his  last  companion. 

His  antagonist  was  larger  than  Susette,  the  sur 
vivor  of  many  moonlit  battles  to  the  death  in  the 
frozen,  foodless  wilderness  of  hills. 

Antoine  struggled  not  as  a  man ;  he  was  now  merely 
the  good,  glorious,  fighting  beast — masterful,  primi- 


30  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

tive,  the  keeper  of  his  own.  Lacerated  with  the  snap 
ping  of  powerful  jaws,  bleeding  from  his  face  and 
hands,  the  man  felt  that  he  was  winning.  With  a 
whining  cry,  less  than  half  human,  he  succeeded  in 
fixing  his  left  hand  upon  the  hairy  throat,  crushed 
the  wolf  down  upon  its  back,  and  with  prodigious 
strength,  began  pressing  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
in  between  the  protruding  lower  ribs.  He  would  tear 
them  out !  He  would  thrust  his  hand  in  among  the 
vitals  of  his  foe ! 

All  the  while  Susette,  whining  and  switching  her 
tail,  watched  with  glowing  eyes  the  struggle  of  the 
males,  and  waited  for  the  proof  of  the  master. 

At  this  juncture  she  arose  with  a  nervous,  threat 
ening  swaying  of  the  head,  approached  the  two  cau 
tiously,  then  hurled  herself  into  the  encounter.  She 
leaped  with  a  savage  yelp  upon  him  who  had  long 
been  her  master. 

The  man's  grip  relaxed.  He  fell  back  and  threw 
out  his  arms  in  which  once  more  the  weakness  of 
the  fever  came. 

"  Susette  1"  he  gasped;  "I  was  good  to  you; 
I " 

His  voice  was  choked  into  a  wheeze.  Susette  had 
gripped  him  by  the  throat,  and  the  two  were  upon 
him. 

She  had  gone  back  to  the  ways  of  her  kind — and 
the  man  was  an  alien. 


II 

THE   LOOK  IN  THE   FACE 

IT  was  after  one  of  the  Saturday  night  feasts  at 
No-Teeth  Lodge  that  I  drew  my  old  friend, 
Half-a-Day,   to   one   side  where   the   shadows 
were  not  broken  by  the  firelight. 

"  Tell  me  another  story,  Half-a-Day,"  I  said. 

He  grunted  and  puffed  at  his  pipe  in  silence. 

"  Have  I  not  given  much  cow  meat  to  the  feast 
and  did  I  not  throw  silver  on  the  drums?  " 

"  Ah,"  he  assented. 

"  Then  I  wish  to  hear  a  story." 

"  You  are  my  friend,"  he  began  with  majestic  de 
liberation,  speaking  in  his  own  tongue ;  "  for  we 
have  eaten  meat  together  from  the  same  kettle  and 
looked  upon  each  other  through  the  pipe  smoke.  It 
will  therefore  make  me  glad  to  tell  you  a  story  about 
buffalo  meat " 

"  Ah,  about  a  hunt?" 

"  And  a  me-zhinga  [girl] " 

"Oh,  a  love  story!" 

"  And  a  man  whom  I  wished  to  kill." 

"  Good !     And  did  you  kill  him  ?  " 

"  My  brother  is  like  all  his  white  brothers,  who 
leap  at  things.  Never  will  they  wait.  If  I  said  yes 
or  no,  then  would  I  have  no  story." 

31 


32  THE    LONESOME   TRAIL 

;<  Then  give  me  a  puff  at  the  pipe,  Half-a-Day,  and 
I  will  be  patient." 

Half-a-Day  gave  me  the  pipe  and  began,  with  eyes 
staring  through  the  fire  and  far  away  down  the  long 
trail  that  leads  back  to  youth. 

"  Many  winters  and  summers  ago  I  was  a  young 
man ;  now  I  am  slow  when  I  walk  and  my  head  looks 
much  to  the  ground.  But  I  remember,  and  now  again 
I  am  young  for  a  little  while.  I  can  smell  the  fires 
in  the  evening  that  roared  upward  then,  even  tho'  they 
are  cold  these  many  moons  and  their  ashes  scattered. 
And  I  can  see  the  face  of  Paezha  [flower],  the  one 
daughter  of  Douba  Mona,  for  my  eyes  are  young  too. 
And  Douba  Mona  was  a  great  man. 

"  Paezha  was  not  so  big  as  the  other  squaws,  and 
could  never  be  so  big,  because  she  was  not  made  for 
building  tepees  and  bringing  wood  and  water.  She 
was  little  and  thin  and  good  to  see  like  some  of  your 
white  sisters,  and  there  was  no  face  in  the  village  of 
my  people  like  her  face.  Her  feet  touched  the  ground 
with  a  light  touch  like  a  little  wind  from  the  south; 
her  body  bent  easily  like  a  willow;  I  think  her  eyes 
were  like  stars." 

I  smiled  here,  because  the  simile  has  become  so 
trite  among  us  white  lovers.  But  Half-a-Day  saw 
me  not;  he  looked  down  the  long  trail  that  leads  back 
to  youth,  leading  through  and  beyond  the  fire. 

"  And  I  looked  upon  her  face  until  I  could  see 
nothing  else — not  the  sunrise  nor  the  sunset  nor  the 
moon  and  stars.  Her  face  became  a  medicine  face  to 


THE   LOOK    IN   THE    FACE          33 

me;  because  I  was  a  young  man  and  it  was  good  to 
see  her.  And  also,  I  was  a  poor  young  man;  my 
father  had  few  ponies,  and  her  father  had  as  many  as 
one  could  see  with  a  big  look. 

"  But  I  was  strong  and  proud  and  in  the  long 
nights  I  dreamed  of  Paezha,  till  one  day  I  said :  '  I 
will  have  her  and  I  will  fight  all  the  braves  in  all  the 
villages  before  I  will  give  her  up.  Then  afterwards 
I  will  get  many  ponies  like  her  father.' 

"  So  one  evening  when  the  meat  boiled  over  the 
fires,  I  went  down  to  the  big  spring  and  hid  in  the 
grass,  for  it  was  the  habit  of  Paezha  to  bring  cold 
water  to  her  father  in  the  evenings,  carrying  it  in  a 
little  kettle  no  bigger  than  your  head  covering,  for 
she  was  not  big. 

"  And  I  lay  waiting.  I  could  not  hear  the  bugs 
nor  the  running  of  the  spring  water  nor  the  wind  in 
the  willows,  because  my  heart  sang  so  loud. 

"  And  I  heard  a  step — and  it  was  Paezha.  She 
leaned  over  the  spring,  and  looked  down;  then  there 
were  two  Paezhas,  so  my  wish  for  her  was  doubled 
and  had  the  strength  of  two  wishes. 

"  I  arose  from  the  grass.  She  looked  upon  me 
and  fear  came  into  her  eyes;  for  there  was  that  in 
my  face  which  wished  to  conquer,  and  I  was  very 
strong.  Like  the  tae-chuga  [antelope]  she  leaped 
and  ran  with  wind-feet  down  the  valley.  I  was  with 
out  breath  when  I  caught  her,  and  I  lifted  her  with 
arms  too  strong,  for  she  cried." 

Half-a-Day  reached  toward  me  for  the  pipe  and 


34  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

puffed  strongly.  His  eyes  were  masterful,  with  the 
world-old  spirit  of  the  conquering  male  in  them. 

"  Then  as  I  held  her,  I  looked  upon  her  face  and 
saw  what  I  had  never  seen  before :  a  look  in  the  face 
that  was  sad  and  weak  and  frightened,  begging  for 
pity.  Only  it  was  not  all  that;  it  was  shining  like 
the  sun  through  a  cloud,  and  it  was  stronger  than  I, 
for  I  became  weak  and  could  hold  her  no  longer.  A 
little  while  she  looked  with  wide  eyes  upon  me;  and 
then  I  saw  what  makes  the  squaws  break  their  backs 
carrying  wood  and  water  and  zhinga  zhingas 
[babies] ;  also  what  makes  men  fight  and  do  great 
deeds  that  are  not  selfish. 

"  Then  she  ran  from  me  and  I  fell  upon  my  face 
and  cried  like  a  zhinga  zhinga  at  the  back  of  a  squaw 
— I  know  not  why." 

Half-a-Day  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe,  then  sighing 
handed  it  to  me. 

"  Have  you  seen  that  look  in  the  face,  White 
Brother?"  he  said,  staring  upon  me  with  eyes  that 
mastered  me. 

"  I  am  very  young,"  I  answered. 

"  But  when  you  see  it,  it  will  make  you  old,"  con 
tinued  Half-a-Day;  u  for  when  I  arose  and  went  back 
to  the  village  I  was  old  and  nothing  was  the  same. 
From  that  time  I  could  look  into  the  eyes  of  the 
biggest  brave  without  trembling,  for  I  was  a  man  and 
I  had  seen  the  look. 

"  And  it  was  in  the  time  when  the  sunflowers  die, 
the  time  for  the  hunting  of  bison.  So  the  whole  tribe 


THE    LOOK   IN   THE    FACE          35 

made  ready  for  the  hunt.  One  morning  we  rode  out 
of  the  village  on  the  bison  trail;  and  we  were  so 
many  that  the  foremost  were  lost  in  the  hills  when 
the  last  left  the  village.  And  we  all  sang,  but  the 
ponies  neighed  at  the  lonesome  lodges,  for  they  were 
leaving  home. 

"  Many  days  we  travelled  toward  the  evenings, 
and  there  was  song  in  me  even  when  I  did  not  sing; 
for  always  I  rode  near  Paezha,  who  rode  in  a  blanket 
swung  on  poles  between  two  ponies,  for  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  man.  And  I  spoke  gentle  words 
to  her,  and  she  smiled — because  she  had  seen  my 
weakness  in  the  valley  of  the  big  spring.  Also  I 
picked  flowers  for  her,  and  she  took  them. 

"  But  one  day  Black  Dog  rode  on  the  other  side 
of  her  and  spoke  soft  words.  And  a  strange  look  was 
on  the  face  of  Paezha,  but  not  the  look  I  had  seen. 
So  I  drove  away  the  bitterness  of  my  heart  and  spoke 
good  words  to  Black  Dog.  But  he  was  sullen,  and 
also  he  was  better  to  look  upon  than  I.  I  can  say 
this  now,  for  I  have  felt  the  winds  of  many  winters. 

"  Many  sleeps  we  rode  toward  the  places  of  the 
evening.  The  moon  was  thin  and  small  and  bent  like 
a  child's  bow  when  we  started,  and  it  hung  low  above 
the  sunset.  And  as  we  travelled  it  grew  bigger,  ever 
farther  toward  the  place  of  morning,  until  it  was  like 
a  white  sun.  Then  at  last  it  came  forth  no  more,  but 
rested  in  its  black  tepee  after  its  steep  trail. 

"  And  all  the  while  we  strained  our  eyes  from  many 
lonesome  hilltops,  but  saw  no  bison.  Scarcer  and 


36  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

scarcer  became  the  food,  for  the  summer  had  been 
a  summer  of  fighting;  we  had  conquered  and  feasted 
much,  hunted  little. 

"  So  it  happened  that  we  who  were  strong  took  less 
meat  that  the  weaker  might  live  until  we  found  the 
bison.  And  all  the  time  the  strength  of  Paezha's 
face  grew  upon  me,  so  that  I  divided  my  meat  with 
her.  It  made  me  sing  to  see  her  eat. 

"  One  day  she  said  to  me :  *  Why  do  you  sing, 
Half-a-Day,  when  the  people  are  sad?  '  And  I  said: 
1 1  sing  because  I  am  empty.'  And  Black  Dog,  who 
rode  upon  the  other  side,  he  did  not  sing.  So  she  said 
to  him :  '  Why  do  you  not  sing,  Black  Dog  ?  Is  it 
because  we  do  not  find  the  bison  ?  '  And  Black  Dog 
said:  '  I  do  not  sing  because  I  am  empty.' 

"  All  day  I  was  afraid  that  Paezha  had  judged 
between  us,  seeing  me  so  light  of  thought  and  deed. 

"  One  evening  we  stopped  for  the  night  and  there 
was  not  enough  meat  left  to  keep  us  three  sleeps 
longer.  The  squaws  did  not  sing  as  they  pitched  the 
tepees.  They  were  empty,  the  braves  were  empty, 
and  the  zhinga  zhingas  whined  like  little  baby  wolves 
at  their  mothers'  backs,  for  the  milk  they  drank  was 
thin  milk.  No  one  spoke.  The  fires  boomed  up  and 
made  the  hills  sound  as  with  the  bellowing  of  bulls, 
and  the  sound  mocked  us.  The  dark  came  down ;  we 
sat  about  the  fires  but  we  did  not  speak.  We  groaned, 
for  we  were  very  empty,  and  we  could  not  eat  until 
we  had  slept.  Once  every  sleep  we  ate,  and  we  had 
eaten  once. 


THE   LOOK    IN   THE    FACE         37 

"  That  night  the  wise  old  men  gathered  together 
in  the  tepee  of  the  chiefs  and  sang  medicine  songs 
that  Wakunda  [God]  might  hear  and  see  our  suf 
fering;  then  might  he  send  us  the  bison. 

"  I  heard  the  songs  and  I  felt  a  great  strength  grow 
up  out  of  my  emptiness.  Then  I  said :  '  I  will  go 
to  the  fathers  and  they  will  send  me  in  search  of  the 
bison ;  and  I  will  find  the  bison  for  Paezha  that  she 
may  not  starve.'  I  had  forgotten  myself  and  my 
people.  I  knew  only  Paezha,  for  that  day  I  had 
heard  her  moan,  having  nothing  more  to  give. 

"  And  I  went  to  the  big  tepee.  I  stood  amongst 
the  fathers  and  lifted  a  strong  voice  in  spite  of  my 
emptiness :  *  Give  me  a  swift  pony  and  a  little  'meat 
and  I  will  find  the  bison !  ' 

"  And  the  old  men  sighed  as  they  looked  upon  me. 
And  Douba  Mona,  her  father,  being  one  of  the  wise 
men,  said :  '  I  see  a  light  in  his  eye  and  hear  a 
strength  in  his  voice.  Give  him  the  swift  pony  and 
the  little  meat.  If  he  finds  the  bison,  then  shall  he 
have  Paezha,  for  well  I  see  that  there  is  something 
between  them.  Also  he  shall  have  many  ponies;  I 
have  many.' 

"  And  these  words  made  me  full  as  though  I  had 
sat  at  a  feast. 

"  So  the  next  morning  I  took  the  swift  pony  and 
the  little  meat  and  galloped  toward  the  evening.  The 
people  did  not  take  the  trail  that  day,  for  toil  makes 
hunger. 

"  Two  sleeps  I  rode,  singing  songs  and  dreaming 


38  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

dreams  of  Paezha.  And  on  the  evening  of  the  third 
sunlight  I  stopped  upon  a  hill,  and  turned  my  pony 
loose  to  feed.  I  was  sick  and  weak  because  my  emp 
tiness  had  come  back  upon  me  and  I  had  not  yet  found 
the  bison.  I  fell  upon  my  face  and  moaned,  and  my 
emptiness  sent  me  to  sleep. 

;'  When  I  awoke,  someone  sat  beside  me — and  it 
was  Black  Dog.  He  breathed  soft  words.  *  I  have 
come  to  watch  over  Half-a-Day,'  he  said,  '  because  I 
am  older  and  a  bigger  man.' 

"  I  spoke  not  a  word,  but  my  heart  was  warm  to 
ward  Black  Dog,  for  my  dreams  of  Paezha  had  made 
me  kind. 

"  '  Well  I  know/  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  soft  as 
a  woman's;  l  well  I  know  what  Half-a-Day  dreams 
about.  And  I  have  come  to  watch  over  him  that  his 
dream  may  come  true.' 

"  Then  being  a  young  man  and  full  of  kindness,  I 
told  Black  Dog  of  the  look  I  had  seen  in  the  face  of 
'Paezha.  And  he  bit  his  lips  and  made  a  sound  far 
down  in  his  throat  that  was  not  pleasant  to  hear.  And 
I  fell  to  sleep  wondering  much. 

"  When  I  awoke,  the  ponies  were  gone,  the  meat 
was  gone,  Black  Dog  was  gone.  I  grew  strong  as  a 
bear.  I  shrieked  into  the  stillness !  I  shook  my  fists 
at  the  sun !  I  cursed  Black  Dog !  I  stumbled  on 
over  the  hills  and  valleys,  shouting,  singing,  hurling 
big  words  of  little  meaning  into  the  yellow  day. 

"  Before  night  came  I  found  the  body  of  a  dead 
wolf,  and  I  fell  upon  it  like  a  crow.  I  tore  its  flesh 


THE    LOOK    IN   THE    FACE         39 

with  my  teeth.  I  called  it  Black  Dog.  I  ate  much. 
It  smelled  bad.  I  found  a  little  stream  and  drank 
much.  It  was  almost  lost  in  the  mud.  I  slept  and 
dreamed  of  Paezha.  I  awoke,  and  it  was  day  again. 
I  found  the  dead  wolf  again.  I  ate.  Then  I 
was  stronger  and  I  went  on  into  the  empty  yellow 
prairie. 

"  Toward  evening  I  heard  a  thundering,  yet  saw 
no  cloud.  It  was  the  dry  time.  Still  it  thundered, 
thundered — yet  no  cloud.  I  ran  to  the  top  of  a  hill 
and  gazed. 

"Bison!  Bison!  The  prairie  was  full  of  bison, 
and  they  were  feeding  slowly  toward  the  camp  of  my 
people. 

"  I  turned,  I  ran !  I  did  not  make  a  sound,  tho'  I 
wished  to  cry  out.  I  needed  all  my  strength  for  run 
ning,  for  I  had  no  pony.  I  ran,  ran,  ran.  I  fell,  I 
got  up,  I  fell.  Night  came;  I  walked.  Morning 
came;  still  I  walked.  Night  came;  I  stumbled.  And 
in  the  morning  I  was  creeping. 

"  I  do  not  know  when  I  reached  the  camp  of  my 
people,  I  remember  only  a  shouting  and  a  sudden 
moving  of  the  tribe.  And  then,  after  many  bad 
dreams,  I  was  awake  again  and  the  people  were 
feasting.  They  had  found  the  bison. 

"  Then,  when  we  were  on  the  home  trail,  I  learned 
of  the  treachery  of  Black  Dog.  He  had  told  my 
people  how  he  had  found  Half-a-Day  dead  upon  the 
prairie,  but  was  too  weak  to  bring  him  back.  And 
the  people  believed  for  a  time.  And  Black  Dog  spoke 


40  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

soft  words  to  Paezha,  brave  words  to  Douba  Mona, 
until  I  was  almost  forgotten. 

"  But  now  I  was  a  great  man  among  my  people, 
and  Black  Dog  could  not  raise  his  head,  for  he  had 
seen  hate  in  the  people's  eyes. 

"  And  in  the  time  of  the  first  frosts  we  reached  our 
village  and  Paezha  became  my  squaw.  Also  I  got 
the  ponies." 

Here  Half-a-Day  paused  to  fill  his  pipe. 

"  It  is  a  good  story,  Half-a-Day,"  I  said.  Haif 
a-Day  lit  his  pipe,  stared  long  into  the  glow  of  the 
embers,  for  the  fires  had  fallen,  and  sighed. 

"  I  have  not  spoken  yet,"  he  said;  "  for  one  day  in 
the  time  of  the  first  snow,  Paezha  lay  dead  in  my 
lodge,  and  my  breast  ached.  Black  Dog  had  killed 
her  at  the  big  spring.  At  the  same  place  where  I  had 
first  seen  the  look,  there  he  killed  her. 

"  I  remember  that  I  sat  beside  her  two  sleeps  and 
cried  like  a  zhinga  zhinga.  And  my  friends  came  to 
me,  whispering  bitter  words  into  my  ears.  l  Kill 
Black  Dog,'  they  said.  And  I  said:  *  Bring  him  here 
to  me,  and  I  will  kill  him ;  my  legs  will  not  carry  me.' 

"  But  the  fathers  of  the  council  would  not  have  it 
so.  And  when  they  had  buried  her  on  the  hill  above 
the  village,  I  awoke  as  from  a  long  sleep,  a  very  long 
sleep,  and  I  was  full  of  hate.  They  kept  me  in  my 
lodge.  They  would  not  let  me  kill.  I  wished  to  kill ! 
I  wished  to  tear  him  as  Itore  the  stinking  wolf  with 
my  teeth !  /  wished  to  kill!  " 

Half-a-Day  had  arisen  to  his  feet,  his  fists  clenched, 


THE   LOOK    IN  THE    FACE         41 

his  eyes  shining  with  a  cold  light.  He  made  a  tragic 
figure  in  the  dull,  blue  glow  of  the  embers. 

"  Come,  Half-a-Day,"  I  said,  "  it  is  long  passed, 
and  now  it  is  only  a  story." 

"  It  is  more  than  a  story!  "  he  said.  "  I  lived  it. 
I  wished  to  kill!" 

He  sat  down  again,  and  a  softer  light  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"  And  the  time  came,"  he  went  on  with  a  weary 
voice,  "  when  Black  Dog  should  be  cast  forth  from 
the  tribe,  according  to  the  old  custom.  I  said,  '  I  will 
follow  Black  Dog,  and  I  will  see  him  die.'  And  he 
was  cast  forth.  I  followed,  and  it  was  very  cold. 
The  snow  whined  under  my  feet,  and  I  followed  in 
the  night. 

"  But  Black  Dog  did  not  know  I  followed.  I  was 
ever  near  him  like  a  shadow.  I  did  not  sleep;  I 
watched  Black  Dog.  I  meant  to  see  him  die. 

"  In  his  first  sleep  I  crept  upon  him.  I  stole  his 
meat;  I  stole  his  weapons.  Now  he  would  die,  and 
I  would  be  there  to  see.  I  would  laugh,  I  would  sing 
while  he  died. 

"  In  the  cold,  pale  morning  I  lay  huddled  in  a 
clump  of  sage  and  I  saw  him  get  up,  look  for  his  meat 
and  weapons,  then  stagger  away  into  the  lonesome 
places  of  the  snow.  And  I  sang  a  low  song  to  myself. 
The  time  would  come  when  I  would  see  Black  Dog 
die.  I  did  not  feel  the  cold;  I  did  not  grow  weary; 
I  was  never  hungry.  And  in  the  evenings  I  was  ever 
near  enough  to  hear  him  groan  as  he  wrapped  himself 


42  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

in  his  blankets.  Often  I  crept  up  to  him  and  looked 
upon  his  face  in  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  I  saw  my 
time  coming,  for  his  face  was  thinner  and  not  so  good 
to  look  upon  as  in  the  time  when  the  sunflowers  died. 

"  I  could  have  killed  him,  but  then  he  could  not 
have  heard  me  sing,  he  could  not  have  heard  me 
laugh.  So  I  waited  and  followed  and  watched.  I  ate 
my  meat  raw  that  Black  Dog  might  not  see  my  fire. 
Also  I  watched  to  see  that  he  found  nothing  to  eat; 
and  he  found  nothing. 

**  One  day  I  lay  upon  the  summit  of  a  hill  and  saw 
him  totter  in  the  valley.  Then  I  could  be  quiet  no 
longer.  I  raised  my  voice  and  shouted :  '  Fall,  Black 
Dog!  Even  so  Half-a-Day  fell  when  Black  Dog 
stole  his  meat  and  his  pony ! ' 

"  And  I  saw  him  get  up  and  stare  about,  for  I  was 
hidden.  Then  his  voice  came  up  to  me  over  the  snow ; 
it  was  a  thin  voice :  1 1  know  you,  Half-a-Day !  Come 
and  kill  me !  ' 

"  '  Half-a-Day  never  killed  a  sick  man  nor  a 
squaw,'  I  shouted,  and  then  I  laughed — a  cold,  bitter 
laugh.  Then  Black  Dog  shook  his  fists  at  the  four 
corners  of  the  sky  and  stumbled  off  into  the  hills,  and 
I  followed.  Now  my  time  was  very  near,  for  Black 
Dog  felt  my  nearness  and  he  knew  that  he  would  die 
and  I  would  see  him. 

"  And  one  evening  my  time  came.  Black  Dog  was 
in  the  valley  by  a  frozen  stream,  and  he  fell  upon  his 
face,  sending  forth  a  thin  cry  as  he  fell — thin  and  ice- 
like.  He  did  not  get  up.  He  lay  very  still. 


THE   LOOK   IN  THE   FACE         43 

"  I  ran  down  to  where  he  lay — and  I  laughed, 
laughed,  laughed.  I  heard  him  groan.  I  rolled  him 
over  on  his  back  and  looked  upon  his  face. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  looked  upon  his  face ! 

"  He  opened  his  eyes  and  they  were  very  dim  and 
sunken.  His  face  was  sharp.  I  sat  down  beside  him. 
I  said,  *  Now  die,  and  I  will  sing  about  it.' 

"  Then  his  face  changed.  It  became  a  squaw's 
face — and  it  had  the  look! — a  look  that  was  sad  and 
weak  and  frightened  and  begging  for  pity.  And  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  was  not  the  face  of  Black  Dog 
any  more.  //  had  the  look!  I  had  seen  it  in  the  face 
of  Paezha  by  the  spring! 

"  Now  since  I  have  many  winters  behind  me,  I 
wonder  if  it  was  not  a  coward's  face;  but  then  it  was 
not  so.  I  grew  soft.  There  was  a  great  springtime 
in  my  breast.  The  ice  was  breaking  up.  I  wrapped 
my  blankets  about  him.  I  gave  him  meat.  He  stared 
at  me  and  ate  like  a  wolf.  I  spoke  soft  words.  I 
made  a  fire  from  the  brush  that  was  on  the  frozen 
stream.  I  warmed  him  and  he  grew  stronger.  All 
night  I  watched  him  and  in  the  morning  I  said: 
'  Take  my  bow  and  arrows,  Black  Dog ;  I  wish  to  die. 
Go  on  and  live.'  For  I  had  lost  the  wish  to  kill;  I 
only  wished  to  die.  And  he  said  no  word;  but  his 
eyes  were  changed. 

"  I  staggered  away  on  the  back  trail.  I  had  no 
meat,  I  had  no  blankets,  I  had  no  weapons.  I  meant 
to  die. 

"  But  I  did  not  die.     When  I  lay  down  at  night, 


44  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

worn-out  and  half  frozen,  someone  wrapped  blankets 
about  me  and  built  a  fire  by  me.  In  the  mornings  I 
found  food  beside  me.  And  so  it  was  for  many 
sleeps  until  at  last  I  came  to  the  village  of  my  peo 
ple,  broken,  caring  for  nothing.  And  I  was  thin,  my 
face  was  sharp,  my  eyes  were  sunken,  my  step  was 
slow. 

"  And  the  people  looked  upon  me  with  wonder, 
saying :  '  Half-a-Day  has  come  back  from  killing 
Black  Dog.' 

"  But  the  truth  was  different." 

When  Half-a-Day  had  finished,  he  stared  long  into 
the  fire  without  speaking. 

"  Do  you  think  Black  Dog  was  all  a  coward?  "  I 
asked  at  length.  "  Perhaps  he  only  loved  too  much." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Half-a-Day;  "  I  only  know 
sometimes  I  wish  I  had  not  looked  upon  his  face." 


Ill 

FEATHER   FOR   FEATHER 

TUM-UM-UM,  tum-um-um,  went  the 
drums  beaten  by  the  hands  of  the  old  men 
— too  old  for  wars,  but  now  grown  mo 
mentarily  youthful  with  the  victory  of  the  young 
men  who  were  returning  from  battle. 

Tum-um-um,  tum-um-um!  So  sang  the  drums — 
great,  glad  buckskin  drums,  exultant  beneath  the 
staccato  blows  of  the  old  men's  drumsticks.  Tum-um- 
um,  tum-um-um !  Now  the  women,  dressed  in  their 
gayest  garments  of  dyed  buckskin,  radiant  in  beads, 
with  the  spirit  of  song  upon  their  painted  faces,  came 
forth  in  a  long  file  from  a  lodge  and  approached  the 
centre  of  the  open  space  about  which  were  grouped 
the  mud  lodges  of  the  village. 

There,  in  the  centre,  sat  the  old  men.  The  drums 
were  singing  a  glad  song,  in  sullen  tones,  in  this  hour 
of  victory,  for  a  runner,  breathless  with  his  speed, 
had  brought  the  good  news  when  the  sun  was  half 
way  down  the  sky,  and  now  the  slowly  setting  sun 
was  blazing  on  the  evening  hills. 

Soon  the  whole  victorious  band,  fresh  from  their 
fight  with  the  Sioux,  would  come  over  the  hills  like 
an  eager,  dusty  wind,  clamorous  with  glad  tongues 

45 


46  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

and  thunderous  with  the  driven  hoofs  of  captured 
ponies. 

So  the  drums  sang  and  the  women  came  forth  and 
circled  about  them,  peering  beneath  hands  raised 
browward,  into  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  valley 
down  which  the  band  would  sweep. 

They  swelled  the  song  of  victory,  the  song  of  wel 
come  to  the  victors,  and  the  look  of  welcome  was 
already  upon  their  faces  as  they  searched  the  deepen 
ing  shadows. 

There  came  a  rumble  over  the  hills  as  of  a  hidden 
storm  in  time  of  drouth,  thundering  mockingly  in  the 
rainless  air.  The  drummers  lifted  their  sticks  with 
trembling  hands  and  listened — with  one  accord  they 
all  listened  for  the  shouts  and  the  hoof  beats. 

Now  the  faint  treble  of  distant  shouting  pierced 
the  growing  rumble  of  the  thunder.  It  was  the 
braves !  They  were  returning  with  much  glory  and 
many  ponies.  The  drumsticks  fell  snarlingly  upon 
the  taut  buckskin,  but  the  sound  seemed  only  a  whis 
per,  for  the  entire  village  was  shouting  with  a  tumult 
that  made  the  grazing  ponies  snort  upon  the  hillsides 
and  gallop  away  with  ears  pricked  wonderingly. 

"  They  come !    They  come !  " 

The  villagers  thronged  upon  that  side  of  the  vil 
lage  that  looked  toward  the  hills  from  whence  the 
thunder  deepened.  A  dust  cloud  gathered  behind  the 
hills.  It  grew  until  it  caught  the  horizontal  sunlight 
and  seemed  a  scintillating  tower  of  victory.  Sud 
denly  the  hill  above  the  valley  was  thronged  with 


FEATHER    FOR    FEATHER  47 

mounted  braves,  waving  their  weapons  above  their 
heads  and  shouting,  and  a  sunlit  cloud  of  glory  seemed 
about  them. 

The  band  swept  down  the  hillside  and  down  the 
valley,  and  the  dust  cloud  thickened  under  the  im 
petuous  hoofs  that  beat  the  parched  and  yellow  prai 
rie.  When  they  drew  near  the  opening  in  the  circle 
of  lodges,  the  foremost  hurled  his  panting  pony  back 
upon  its  haunches  and  the  others  reared  and  halted 
behind,  champing  at  the  restraining  thongs. 

"  A-ho  I  "  shouted  the  foremost,  holding  his 
weapons  above  his  head.  "  We  come  from  the 
Sioux !  We  have  many  ponies  and  also  scalp-locks ! 
Sing !  For  we  have  fought  a  good  fight  and  we  are 
not  ashamed  1  " 

A  great  shout  went  up  from  the  village,  and  the 
drums  snarled.  Slowly,  majestically,  the  circle  of 
women  began  moving  about  the  drums,  keeping  time 
to  the  rhythmic  beats  with  a  sideward  shuffling  of 
their  feet  in  the  dust.  In  a  monotonous  minor  key 
the  singing  of  the  women  began — at  first  like  the 
crooning  of  an  Indian  mother  to  a  restless  child  when 
the  camp  fires  burn  blue,  and  all  the  braves  are  snor 
ing  in  the  dark. 

Then  it  rose  into  the  mournful  wail  of  a  wife 
looking  upon  a  dead  face — a  wordless,  eloquent  song. 
Then,  with  a  burst,  it  rose  into  a  treble  cry,  and 
words  became  dimly  recognisable  amid  the  ecstasy. 

"  We  come,  we  come,  and  we  are  not  ashamed!  " 
sang  the  women  to  the  snarling  of  the  drums.  "  Let 


48  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

the  fires  roar  and  the  bison  meat  be  cooked,  for  we 
have  fought,  and  now  we  wish  to  eat ! 

"  Let  the  women  dance  and  sing  that  we  may  be 
glad  after  our  fighting !  A-ho !  A-ho !  We  travelled 
far — one  sleep,  two  sleeps,  three  sleeps,  but  we  slum 
bered  not !  We  came  upon  our  enemies.  They  were 
hidden  in  the  grass  like  badgers.  They  were  dressed 
in  yellow  grass  that  they  might  hide.  We  saw  them 
and  we  shouted  with  joy,  for  we  were  not  afraid !  The 
enemy  trembled  like  wolves  who  have  come  to  the 
end  of  the  ravine  and  the  hunters  follow  behind !  " 

As  the  women  sang,  shuffling  about  the  circle,  the 
braves  rode  in  single  file  into  the  enclosure  of  the 
village  and  formed  a  circle  about  the  dance. 

"  I  saw  a  big  man  among  my  enemies,"  sang  the 
women,  for  so  their  song  ran.  "  He  was  strong  as 
a  bear  and  terrible  as  an  elk.  His  head  was  proud 
with  eagle  feathers,  for  many  men  had  he  killed.  I 
did  not  tremble  when  he  rushed  at  me;  I  raised  my 
club  and  struck  him,  and  he  fell  with  his  eagle 
feathers.  He  whimpered  like  an  old  woman  when 
she  becomes  a  child  again.  He  said,  1 1  have  many 
ponies  for  you,  and  my  children  will  cry  if  I  do  not 
go  back.  Spare  me ! 5  But  behold !  I  have  his  scalp 
lock!" 

"  His  scalp  lock!  His  scalp  lock!  "  shouted  the 
braves,  as  the  words  of  the  song  were  drowned  again 
in  the  minor  drone  that  followed  the  snarl  of  the 
drums.  And  they  waved  scalp  locks  above  their  heads 
— the  locks  of  the  fallen  Sioux. 


FEATHER    FOR   FEATHER  49 

Out  of  the  droning  the  song  of  the  women  grew 
again.  It  became  more  ecstatic,  running  the  gamut 
of  human  passion — from  the  shrill  shriek  of  defiance 
to  the  mournful  wail  for  those  who  had  fallen  in  the 
battle.  And  then  the  shuffling  stopped;  the  song  died 
away  into  a  drone  and  ceased,  like  the  song  of  a  locust 
at  the  end  of  a  sultry  evening.  The  drums  snarled 
no  more,  a  great  silence  fell,  the  sun  had  sunk  beneath 
the  hills. 

Then,  in  the  silence  and  the  shadows  of  the  even 
ing,  one  came  forth  from  among  the  circle  of  braves, 
and,  with  a  slow,  majestic  bending  of  the  knees, 
danced  in  a  circle  about  the  women  and  the  drums, 
that  began  again  as  an  accompaniment  to  the  song 
that  he  would  sing. 

Round  and  round  the  circle  he  danced,  improvising 
a  song  to  the  rhythm  of  the  drums,  in  which  he  sang 
his  prowess,  and  the  whole  village  shouted  when  he 
reached  the  end  of  his  song,  for  he  told  of  a  good 
fight  and  a  strong  arm,  and  he  had  been  great  in 
battle. 

Then,  amid  the  shouting,  another  came  forth  to 
dance  and  sing,  for  he  too  had  done  great  things. 
It  was  White  Cloud,  and  he  was  great  among  his 
people.  Round  and  round  the  circle  he  danced  to  the 
tune  of  the  drums,  dodging  imaginary  arrows,  leap 
ing  upon  imaginary  foes,  striking  huge  blows  at  the 
heads  of  warriors  hidden  in  the  shadow. 

"  See !  "  he  shouted  in  his  song,  and  his  voice  was 
loud  and  masterful,  for  a  murmur  of  praise  had 


50  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

passed  among  the  people.  "  See !  White  Cloud 
brings  the  scalp  lock  of  a  chief.  He  took  it  alone 
with  his  strong  hand.  The  scalp  lock  of  a  big  Sioux 
chief!  Who  has  done  a  greater  deed  than  White 
Cloud?  Then  let  the  old  men  place  the  eagle  feather 
in  his  hair  that  he  may  be  known  among  his 
people." 

Once  again  the  dancing  stopped  and  the  drums 
ceased  their  droning.  White  Cloud  approached  the 
old  men,  who  slowly  placed  the  eagle  feather  in  his 
hair. 

But  one  among  the  assembled  braves  did  not  give 
his  voice  to  the  shout  that  ensued. 

His  gaze  narrowed  with  hatred  as  he  looked  upon 
White  Cloud,  and  his  body  trembled  as  a  strong  tree 
that  stands  alone  in  the  path  of  a  tempest. 

Then  as  White  Cloud  strode  proudly  to  the  inner 
rim  of  the  circle  of  braves,  with  the  tall  eagle  feather 
in  his  hair,  another  came  forth  bearing  with  him 
his  bow  and  his  arrows.  It  was  he  who  had  found  no 
voice  in  which  to  celebrate  White  Cloud's  valour. 

He  was  tall  and  sinewy,  and  he  had  the  clear-cut, 
cruel  face  of  a  hawk,  now  dark  with  a  darkness 
deeper  than  the  shadow  of  the  evening.  It  was  Lit 
tle  Weasel. 

Erect,  quivering  like  a  strong  bow  in  the  clutch  of 
a  mighty  warrior,  he  walked  into  the  open  space,  and 
the  drums  once  more  began  their  wailing.  But  Little 
Weasel  raised  one  trembling  hand  and  commanded 
silence. 


FEATHER    FOR    FEATHER  51 

"  Fathers,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  low,  vibrant 
with  the  growl  of  a  wounded  beast  in  it,  "  Little 
Weasel  needs  no  drums  to  help  him  fill  the  stillness." 

The  people  bent  forward,  hushed,  because  there 
was  something  deeper  than  shadow  in  the  face  of 
Little  Weasel  as  he  turned  his  hawk's  gaze  upon  the 
bowed  head  of  White  Cloud. 

"  Little  Weasel  has  words  to  utter,  but  they  are 
not  song  words  nor  dance  words.  Let  the  women 
and  cowards  sing  and  dance !  " 

Still  the  head  of  White  Cloud  was  bowed,  and 
Little  Weasel  laughed  a  strange  laugh. 

"  Who  took  the  scalplock  of  the  big  Sioux  chief?  " 
shouted  Little  Weasel.  "  I,  Little  Weasel,  took  it! 
One  sleep,  two  sleeps,  I  kept  it  close  beside  me;  for 
I  am  a  young  man  and  I  wanted  to  hear  the  shouts  of 
my  people.  But  in  the  third  sleep  a  great  heaviness 
came  upon  me,  and  when  I  awoke  my  Sioux  scalp  lock 
had  been  stolen  from  me.  Now  I  know  the  badger 
who  crept  upon  me  in  my  heaviness  and  stole  my 
honour  from  me.  Look !  You  have  placed  the  eagle 
feather  in  his  hair!  " 

In  the  hush  that  filled  that  shadowed  place  naught 
but  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  people  was  heard. 
Little  Weasel  fitted  a  feathered  arrow  to  his  bow. 

"  See !  "  he  cried.  u  I  do  not  cry  about  my  stolen 
feather.  I  give  another!  " 

The  bow-thong  twanged,  the  arrow  sang,  and 
lodged  deep  in  White  Cloud's  breast. 

"  Let  White  Cloud  wear  that  feather  in  his  breast 


52  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

so  that  the  black  spirits  will  know  him !  For  look  I 
Already  he  is  among  them !  " 

White  Cloud  had  fallen  upon  his  face.  Little 
Weasel  dropped  his  bow  upon  the  ground,  and,  rais 
ing  his  hands  above  his  head,  he  shouted  into 
the  stillness :  "  Fathers,  I  have  given  feather  for 
feather!" 

Then  a  great  cry  broke  from  the  assembled  braves 
and  the  women  shrieked.  But  Little  Weasel  shoul 
dered  his  way  through  the  throng  and  went  to  his 
lodge,  laughing  bitterly. 

That  evening  the  fires  of  the  feast  did  not  roar 
upward  into  the  night.  There  was  no  song;  there 
was  no  babble  of  glad  voices;  there  was  no  bubbling 
of  kettle  nor  scent  of  meat. 

For  a  member  of  the  tribe  had  been  murdered  by 
a  tribesman,  and  the  murderer,  according  to  an  an 
cient  custom,  would  be  driven  forth  that  night  from 
the  circle  of  the  lodges  into  the  prairie.  And  the 
people  sat  speechless  at  the  dark  doors  of  their  lodges 
awaiting  the  signal. 

After  a  long  and  wordless  waiting  in  the  dark,  the 
people  saw  the  door-flap  of  the  big  council  lodge 
swing  open,  and  they  held  their  breaths,  for  the  time 
of  the  casting  forth  had  come. 

Through  the  hush  of  the  starlit  night  came  Little 
Weasel,  pacing  slowly  about  the  circle  of  the  village, 
and  the  fathers  of  the  council,  slow  with  age,  fol 
lowed  behind. 

Three  times  the  outcast  made  the  rounds,  and  when 


FEATHER    FOR    FEATHER  53 

he  began  the  fourth  and  last  circle  (for  four  is  a 
medicine  number) ,  the  old  men  who  followed  raised 
their  faces  to  the  starlit  sky  and  breathed  these 
words  into  the  quiet: 

"  Let  the  people  look  upon  Little  Weasel,  our 
brother,  for  he  has  killed  a  brother  and  must  suffer. 
Four  times  shall  the  bears  bring  forth  their  cubs; 
four  times  shall  the  lone  goose  fly;  four  times  shall 
the  frogs  sing  in  the  valleys;  four  times  shall  the 
sunflowers  grow ;  and  he  must  wander,  wander.  Then 
shall  Little  Weasel  return  and  his  deed  shall  be  for 
gotten.  W 'ah-hoo-ha-a-a-af  " 

Then  when  Little  Weasel  came  the  fourth  time  to 
the  opening  in  the  circle  of  lodges,  looking  toward 
the  place  of  sunrise,  he  saw  one  standing  in  the  dark 
who  held  a  pony  by  a  thong.  And  Little  Weasel 
leaped  upon  the  pony,  laughed  a  loud,  unpleasant 
laugh,  and  urged  it  southward  into  the  night. 

Throughout  the  night  the  people  in  the  village 
heard  strange  sounds.  For  at  times  somewhere  in 
the  darkness  of  the  hills,  something  laughed  a  loud, 
unmirthful  laugh. 

"  Do  you  hear  it?"  the  people  whispered.  "It 
is  a  wolf.  For  sometimes  in  the  lonesome  nights  they 
laugh  so."  But  the  people  muffled  their  ears  in  their 
blankets,  for  it  is  not  good  to  hear  a  wolf  laugh 
almost  like  a  man. 

All  night  long  Little  Weasel  wandered  upon  the 
hills,  holding  his  grazing  pony  and  looking  down 
upon  the  starlit  village  of  his  people.  He  laughed 


54  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

loudly  at  times,  for  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
sadden  with  trouble. 

"How  can  I  get  revenge  upon  my  people?"  he 
asked  himself.  And  as  yet  he  could  not  answer. 

The  pale  dawn  found  him  sitting  upon  the  hills. 
Then  he  arose  and  mounted  his  pony  and  the  three 
went  southward — the  pony,  the  man,  and  the  question. 

A  light  wind  blew  upon  his  back. 

"  How  can  I  get  revenge  upon  my  people?"  he 
sang  aloud  in  endless  variation  until  his  question  wove 
itself  into  a  song — a  battle  song,  for  Little  Weasel 
had  not  eaten,  and  hunger  feeds  anger.  But  the 
'light  wind  sighing  at  his  back  made  no  answer. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  country  of  the  Pawnees  and  make 
them  angry  with  my  people,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
this  seemed  the  answer  to  his  question  until  the  sun 
had  reached  its  highest  in  the  sky  and  the  wind  had 
fallen  and  the  yellow  prairie  had  become  parched  and 
bare. 

In  the  afternoon  he  stopped  in  the  glare  of  the  sun 
and  held  one  wet  finger  above  his  head  that  he  might 
learn  the  source  of  the  wind. 

There  was  a  faint  breath  from  the  south.  As  he 
stood  it  increased,  coming  in  little  puffs,  hot  and  fit 
ful  and  dry.  Suddenly  it  came  with  a  great  puff  and 
boomed  in  the  arid  gulches. 

Little  Weasel  shouted  with  joy. 

He  had  heard  his  answer  in  the  booming  of  the 
sudden  wind.  He  dismounted,  and,  with  a  flint  and 
some  dry  grass,  lit  a  little  fire. 


FEATHER    FOR   FEATHER  55 

The  great  wind  fed  it  and  it  grew.  Then  Little 
Weasel  collected  a  bunch  of  grass,  lit  it  and  rapidly 
set  fire  to  the  dry  prairie. 

Long,  yellow  flames  leaped  up  from  the  sun-cured 
buffalo-grass,  howled  in  the  wind  that  grew  stronger 
and  stronger,  and  raced  northward  toward  the  valley 
where  the  circled  lodges  of  the  Omahas  lay. 

"  Now  I  will  go  back,"  said  Little  Weasel,  "  and 
the  fire  shall  go  with  me."  He  kicked  his  pony  in 
the  ribs  and  pointed  its  head  northward.  The  wave 
of  flame  preceded  him,  skimming  the  surface  of  the 
grass  with  great  leaps,  gaining  strength  and  fleet- 
ness  as  the  dry  wind  lashed  it  from  behind. 

"  A  ha-ha-he-ha-ha-ha-ha! "  sang  Little  Weasel, 
and  the  pony,  straining  its  wiry  limbs  to  keep  pace 
with  the  yellow  giant  that  ran  before,  wheezed  and 
coughed  an  accompaniment  to  the  song,  for  the  ashes 
were  in  his  nostrils. 

Over  hills,  through  valleys,  across  gulches  the 
pony  ran,  with  the  wall  of  flame  ever  a  strong 
man's  bow-shot  ahead  of  him. 

Now  the  Omahas,  who  had  been  deprived  of  their 
feast  of  victory  the  evening  before,  had  made  the 
feast  fires  roar  upward  throughout  the  village  that 
day  and  much  meat  had  been  eaten. 

Weary  with  much  dancing  and  singing  and  heavy 
with  meat,  the  evening  twilight  found  them  sleeping 
heavily.  And  the  night  deepened  and  still  they  slept. 

But  there  was  one  upon  whom  the  feast  had  laid 
but  a  light  hand,  and  who  awoke  suddenly  in  the 


56  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

night  with  a  smell  in  his  nostrils,  a  roaring  in  his 
ears,  and  a  great  light  in  his  eyes.  He  marvelled, 
for  the  feast  fires  were  dead  in  their  ashes. 

He  arose,  and  when  he  reached  the  door  of  his 
lodge  he  gave  a  cry  that  woke  the  sleeping  village 
and  brought  the  people  clamouring  into  the  open  air. 

Half  the  earth  and  half  the  sky  were  aflame.  The 
stars  had  fled  before  the  great  burning.  Booming 
in  the  strong  wind,  a  wave  of  flame  was  coming  over 
the  hills  and  reaching  long,  spiteful  arms  toward  the 
village  in  the  valley. 

Spellbound,  the  people  gazed.  Then  of  a  sudden  a 
cry  ran  among  them,  for  they  had  seen,  through  a 
momentary  rift  in  the  flame  and  smoke,  high  upon 
the  eminence  of  a  peaked,  fire-blackened  hill,  a  man 
standing  upon  a  pony's  back,  .with  his  arms  above  his 
head.  He  looked  prodigiously  big  and  seemed  to 
ride  upon  a  flood  of  fire. 

Then  the  flames  closed  in,  the  smoke  hid  the 
peaked  hill,  and  frantically  the  people  fled  from 
their  village  to  a  nearby  creek,  where  they  huddled 
in  the  stream,  and  where  the  loud  flame  passed  over 
them,  booming  on  into  the  north. 

When  the  gray  of  morning  fell  upon  the  black 
ened  prairie,  the  people  returned  to  their  village. 
But  at  the  opening  in  the  circle  of  lodges  stood  a 
mounted  man.  Both  he  and  his  pony  were  blackened 
as  with  fire.  It  was  Little  Weasel. 

As  his  people  drew  near  he  raised  a  wheezing 
voice  and  said:  "  Behold  Little  Weasel,  whom  the 


FEATHER    FOR   FEATHER  57 

fire-spirits  love!  All  day  I  rode  across  the  hills, 
thinking  of  my  people's  unkindness.  In  the  even 
ing  a  great  fire  grew  up  about  me.  It  was  not  a 
common  fire;  it  was  a  medicine  fire.  It  grew  up 
about  me  and  my  pony,  and  lifted  us  like  the  waters 
of  a  flood.  And  I  was  frightened  till  I  heard  a  voice 
that  thundered,  and  it  said:  *  Little  Weasel  has 
been  punished  by  a  foolish  people.  The  spirits  of 
fire  will  take  him  back  and  his  people  will  take 
him  in  again.'  And  lo!  here  I  am,  Little  Weasel. 
I  want  my  eagle  feather." 

And  the  people,  believing  many  strange  things, 
took  him  in  with  a  great  feasting. 

And  from  that  day  they  called  him  by  another 
name — Paeda-Nu,  the  Fire-Man. 

And  he  was  great  among  his  people. 


IV 

THE   SCARS 

MY  friend,  the  old  frontiersman,  poked  an 
extra  supply  of  cobs  into  the  stove,  medi 
tatively   watched    the    sudden    flame   lick 
about  the  husks,  then  began  this  monologue  after 
his  usual  manner: 

Yes,  I've  got  a  nice  place  here — nice  ranch. 
Didn't  work  for  it  either — lied  for  it ! 

Now,  I'm  not  given  much  to  that  sort  of  thing, 
as  you  will  grant;  but  when  I  see  a  place  where  a 
good  manly  twisting  of  the  truth  can  sweeten  mat 
ters  up  a  bit,  I'm  not  so  scrupulous. 

Back  in  the  late  fifties  I  was  living  in  St.  Louis, 
pretty  nigh  broke,  for  all  I'd  lived  a  hard,  industri 
ous  life  up  and  down  the  river.  One  day  I  got  a  note 
bearing  the  postmark  of  some  California  mining 
town,  and  it  informed  me  that  I  had  a  considerable 
credit  with  a  certain  St.  Louis  bank.  I  never  heard 
directly  where  the  money  came  from,  but  I  thought 
I  knew.  I  bought  this  place  with  some  of  that 
money,  you  see.  And  there's  a  little  story  attached 
to  this. 

For  a  number  of  years  I  was  employed  by  the 
American  Fur  Company  as  expressman.  Every  win- 

58 


THE   SCARS  59 

ter  I  made  the  trip  from  St.  Louis  to  Fort  Pierre, 
a  distance  of  about  a  thousand  miles.  Carried  mes 
sages  from  headquarters  to  the  posts  and  from  the 
posts  back  to  headquarters.  From  St.  Louis  to 
Pierre  the  trip  was  made  on  horseback,  and  from 
there  up,  other  expressmen  carried  the  mail  on  dog 
sleds. 

Great  days,  those!  Sometimes  when  I  get  to 
thinking  over  old  times,  I  wonder  if  the  railroads 
haven't  taken  some  of  the  iron  out  of  the  blood  of 
men. 

In  the  winter  of  '50 — that  was  the  year  the  gold 
fever  was  raging,  you  know — I  got  to  Pierre  about 
the  middle  of  February.  When  I  had  delivered  the 
mail  and  was  making  ready  to  start  south  again  with 
the  returns,  old  Choteau,  the  factor  of  the  post, 
called  me  into  the  hut  he  called  his  office,  and  made 
an  unusual  request  of  me.  "  We've  got  a  half-breed 
here,"  said  he,  "  who's  got  to  be  elevated.  Under 
stand?  Killed  a  man  in  the  most  atrocious  manner. 
He's  due  at  a  necktie  party  down  at  St.  Louis  about 
next  spring,  and  I'd  rather  not  keep  him  at  the  post; 
can  you  take  him  down  ?  " 

I  was  somewhat  younger  in  those  days,  and  ready 
for  most  anything  new.  Also,  I  had  found  the  trail 
a  little  lonesome  at  times.  Riding  a  preoccupied 
broncho  through  hundreds  of  miles  of  white  silence, 
hearing  the  coyotes  yelp,  dodging  Indians,  and  buck 
ing  blizzards  weren't  ever  calculated  to  be  social 
functions,  you  know.  So  I  was  glad  to  have  com- 


60  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

pany  on  the  trail,  even  if  it  had  to  be  the  company 
of  a  criminal.  Anyway,  I  had  been  so  taught  in  the 
great  rough  school  of  primitive  men,  that  I  had  not 
that  loathing  for  a  killer  of  his  kind  that  is  felt 
by  this  generation. 

"  Certainly,"  said  I  to  the  factor.  "  Put  him  on 
a  mule,  and  I'll  see  him  into  the  government  corral 
at  St.  Louis."  So  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  take 
the  man  to  the  authorities. 

I  did  not  hear  his  name  spoken  and  I  didn't  take 
the  trouble  to  ask.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  man 
who  was  being  shipped  out  with  a  tag  on  him  read 
ing  "  Nowhere,"  had  little  use  for  a  name.  No  one 
was  apt  to  dispute  his  identity. 

Well,  they  put  him  on  a  mule,  handcuffed,  with  a 
chain  to  his  ankles  passed  around  the  belly  of  the 
mule.  He  was,  of  course,  unarmed,  and  I  drove  him 
on  ahead  of  me  to  break  trail.  He  was  a  powerfully 
built  fellow,  neither  tall  nor  short,  and  close-knit. 
He  had  a  face  that  was  not  so  bad,  showing  the 
French  and  Indian  strains  in  him  plainly.  When 
we  had  been  riding  along  silently  for  several  hours, 
I  called  to  him  to  stop  and  rode  up  beside  him. 

I  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  that  look  satisfied  me 
that  I  was  safe  in  doing  what  I  had  thought  of. 
His  eyes  were  large  and  black  and  quiet. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  the  cussed  irons  off  your  legs 
and  arms,"  I  said;  "  you  can't  keep  warm  this  way." 
He  watched  me  taking  them  off  and  said  nothing. 
I  threw  the  irons  away.  "  Go  on,"  I  said.  And 


THE   SCARS  6 1 

he  went,  giving  me  a  look  that  thanked  me  more 
than  words  could  have  done. 

He  had  the  eyes  of  a  brave  man.  I  was  never 
much  afraid  of  a  brave  man;  it's  the  cowards  you 
have  to  watch,  you  know. 

All  day  we  rode,  saying  nothing.  In  the  evening 
we  made  a  shelter  with  our  blankets  in  the  bend  of 
a  creek  where  the  plum  bushes  were  thick.  The 
man  was  a  good  hand  at  the  business,  and  seemed 
anxious  to  please  me. 

We  cooked  and  ate  supper,  then  rolled  up  in  our 
blankets.  I  put  my  two  six-shooters  under  my  head 
for  fear  that  I  might  have  somehow  misread  the 
man's  eyes. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  had  breakfast 
cooked  and  the  nags  saddled.  When  we  were  eating 
I  said:  "Why  didn't  you  take  my  horse  and  run 
away?  I  could  never  have  caught  you  with  the 
mule." 

He  searched  me  for  a  moment  with  his  eyes. 

"  Because  I'm  not  a  coward,"  he  said. 

And  all  day  we  rode  again  in  silence,  until,  toward 
evening,  he  set  up  a  wild  sort  of  a  song — a  chanson 
of  his  fathers,  I  suppose — in  a  voice  that  was  strong 
but  sweet. 

"You  sing!"  said  I. 

Breaking  off  his  song  and  turning  about  on  his 
mule,  he  said  quietly,  as  though  he  were  discussing 
the  best  way  to  make  biscuits  when  you  haven't  any 
soda:  "  Did  you  ever  see  a  dead  liar?  " 


62  THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  Perhaps,"  said  I;  "but  none  in  particular." 

"  And  that  is  why  you  never  sing." 

That  was  the  last  word  that  day.  Up  to  this 
time  the  weather  had  been  rather  too  warm  for 
winter — an  ominous  sort  of  a  warm,  you  know.  A 
mist  hung  over  the  country,  drifting  with  a  light 
wind  from  the  southeast.  During  the  night  the  wind 
whipped  into  the  northwest,  and  in  the  morning  we 
had  a  genuine  frank  old  blizzard  howling  around 
us;  one  of  those  fierce  old  boys  that  nobody  cares 
to  face.  We  had  camped  in  a  wooded  nook  on  the 
south  side  of  the  river  bluffs  and  were  pretty  well 
protected,  so  I  decided  to  lay  up  there  until  things 
brightened  up  a  bit. 

The  man,  for  I  had  not  yet  learned  his  name, 
which  was  not  necessary,  as  the  mail  I  carried  at 
tended  to  that,  volunteered  to  gather  wood;  and  so 
I  lay  in  the  tent  near  the  fire  that  roared  in  front, 
smoking  my  pipe  and  swapping  cusses  with  myself 
or  account  of  the  delay. 

After  a  while  the  man  came  in  with  a  big  arm  load 
of  wood,  whistling  merrily.  "  Well,  you  beat  'em 
all,"  I  said.  "  I  say  a  man  who  can  whistle  like 
that  on  his  last  trip  is  a  game  one.  What's  your 
name  and  who  are  you?  Here,  want  to  smoke?  " 

I  gave  him  my  pipe.  He  took  it  and  blew  rings 
meditatively  for  a  while.  "Well,"  said  he,  "the 
name  doesn't  matter  much,  and  I'm  the  fellow  who's 
elected  to  be  elevated!  " 

We  both  laughed  strangely,  and  I  began  to  open 


THE   SCARS  63 

my  stock  of  yarns,  truthful  and  otherwise,  to  relieve 
the  tedium  of  the  day.  I  had  told  a  number  of  stories 
when  the  man  seemed  to  brighten  up  all  at  once. 
His  eyes  became  on  a  sudden  unusually  brilliant. 

"  I  know  a  story  that's  a  fact,"  said  he.  "  It's 
about  a  friend  of  mine — one  of  the  best  friends  I 
ever  had,  I  reckon.  At  least  he  never  went  back  on 
me.  Shall  I  tell  it?" 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  I. 

And  this  is  the  story  he  told  me : 

"  My  friend's  name  is  Narcisse.  I  knew  him  when 
he  was  just  a  little  shaver.  I  knew  his  mother  and 
his  father.  In  fact  I  was,  at  one  time,  just  like  one 
of  the  family. 

"  Narcisse  was  a  wild  sort  of  a  boy  always,  though 
I  do  think  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place,  as  they 
say.  Never  betrayed  a  friend,  never  stole,  and  never 
knuckled  to  an  enemy.  But  he  was  a  wild  boy  and 
didn't  stay  at  home  much  after  he  was  in  his  first 
'teens.  Knocked  about  the  world  considerable,  Nar 
cisse  did,  and  wound  up  out  here  in  this  God 
forsaken  end  of  creation.  Worked  on  a  cordelle 
gang,  handled  mackinaws,  hammered  pack  mules, 
fought  Indians,  starved  and  feasted,  froze  and 
toasted,  like  all  the  others  who  come  out  here.  En 
tered  the  fur  trade  as  engage  of  the  Company,  and 
was  sent  to  a  post  up  river. 

"  Now  if  there  was  a  weak  spot  in  Narcisse,  it 
was  his  leaning  toward  womenfolks.  None  of  your 
fooling,  though !  Narcisse  loved  just  like  he'd  fight — 


64  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

pretty  serious,  you  know.  When  he  said  a  thing, 
Narcisse  he  meant  that;  and  when  he  wanted  to  do 
something  real  bad,  he  did  that — O,  spite  of  hell  he 
did  that!  You  know  the  breed?  Well,  that  was 
Narcisse. 

"  There  was  an  old  French  trader  living  at  a  post 
further  up — old  man  Desjardins.  He  had  a  daugh 
ter — Paulette — by  an  Indian  woman  who  died  when 
the  girl  was  just  a  baby,  and  the  old  man  raised  her 
somehow — God  knows  how — till  she  grew  to  be 
about  the  prettiest  girl  you'd  see  anywhere  in  a  year's 
tramp,  being  a  good  walker.  Old  man  doted  on  the 
girl,  and  until  she  was  full-grown  there  wasn't  any 
body  could  come  nigh  enough  to  her  to  make  a  sweet 
grin  effective.  But  once  Narcisse  and  his  friend, 
Jacques  Baptiste,  got  snowed  in  there  on  one  of  their 
trips. 

"  Now  them  two,  Jacques  and  Narcisse,  was 
about  the  best  friends  you  ever  saw,  I  reckon.  They 
never  had  any  secrets  from  one  another;  and  many's 
the  time  they  had  split  the  last  bit  of  grub  on  long 
winter  trails,  and  made  a  feast  of  that  little;  because 
there  isn't  any  feast  better  than  a  little  grub  split 
between  friends,  is  there? 

"  Now  Paulette  was  a  slender  little  creature  with 
black  eyes  and  lots  of  black  hair.  Lots  of  hair! 
That  makes  a  woman  fetching,  don't  you  think  so? 
Well,  Narcisse  and  Jacques  sang  old  French  songs 
during  the  blizzard,  and  kind  of  got  into  the  old 
man's  heart  like.  Nothing  like  old-time  songs  to 


THE    SCARS  65 

fetch  a  man  when  he's  got  to  that  place  where  there 
isn't  any  way  to  look  but  back.  So  the  old  man  made 
'em  welcome  and  said  for  'em  to  come  back  when 
they  could. 

"  On  the  trip  from  old  man  Desjardins'  place  to 
Pierre,  them  two  friends  talked  pretty  frank,  like 
they  always  did.  Both  of  'em  was  in  love,  and 
neither  of  'em  was  ashamed  of  it.  Told  each 
other  so. 

"  When'  they  camped  the  first  night  they  talked  it 
all  over  and  Narcisse  said :  '  Jacques,  we've  always 
split  even,  but  here's  where  we  can't.  It's  for  one 
of  us  all  right,  but  one  of  us  has  to  go  without. 
How  about  this?  ' 

"  And  Jacques  puffed  at  his  pipe  a  long  time,  and 
after  a  while  he  said :  *  Let's  agree  that  we'll  always 
go  up  there  together,  and  let  her  take  her  pick.'  And 
Narcisse  agreed;  so  that's  the  way  they  fixed  it. 

"  Managed  to  drop  in  pretty  often  after  that. 
But  there  wasn't  any  way  of  telling  which  was  it. 
One  visit  she'd  smile  more  at  Jacques  than  at  Nar 
cisse,  and  they'd  think  it  was  settled;  and  then  next 
time  it  was  t'other  way. 

"  It  was  a  game,  and  both  of  'em  played  it  like 
a  game.  They  were  too  good  friends  to  slip  a  bower 
or  ace  up  their  sleeves.  They  let  Paulette  deal  the 
hands  and  they  played  'em  the  best  they  could,  same 
as  honest  poker,  you  know.  And  all  the  time  old 
man  Desjardins  looked  on  like  the  man  that  runs  the 
game,  a-raking  in  the  ante,  which  was  the  singing 


66  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

and  the  laughing  they  did  and  the  things  they 
brought  up  with  'em,  for  they  never  came  empty- 
handed. 

"  Well,  the  next  fall  came;  the  game  was  still  on 
and  neither  of  'em  had  stole  a  hand  nor  a  chip  that 
wasn't  his.  And  along  about  the  first  of  September 
the  factor  of  Pierre  sent  the  two  friends  on  a  trip 
to  Benton.  They  went  up  on  the  last  boat  and  were 
to  drop  down  again  in  a  maciknaw  before  the  winter 
set  in,  after  doing  a  little  business  for  the  Company. 

"  On  the  trip  up  Narcisse  and  Jacques  had  a  quiet 
little  game,  which  was  poker.  They  didn't  play  for 
money — played  for  Paulette.  Sort  of  made  a  jack 
pot  out  of  the  girl,  and  it  took  Jacks  or  better  to 
open.  One  deal  and  a  draw  and  the  high  hand  could 
go  to  see  the  old  man  by  himself  and  close  the  game 
that  had  hung  on  so  long. 

"  Narcisse  insisted  on  having  Jacques  deal. 

"  '  Well,'  said  Jacques,  after  the  draw,  *  the  jack 
pot's  mine !  ' 

"  Narcisse  throws  down  three  aces.  Jacques  gasps 
a  little  gasp  and  throws  his  cards  face  up  on  the 
table,  turns  white  and  walks  away.  He  had  two 
pairs — kings  and  queens ! 

"There  wasn't  anything  more  said  about  it;  but 
Jacques  wasn't  the  same  man  at  all.  Acted  like  he 
was  thinking,  thinking  all  the  time.  Face  got  that 
peaked  look  that  comes  of  too  much  thinking;  eyes 
always  looking  a  long  ways  off. 

u  How  do  I  know  this?    W'y,  Narcisse  told  me. 


THE    SCARS  67 

"  Hurt  Narcisse  like  everything  to  see  this;  but 
hadn't  he  won  fair?  Friends  can  split  even  on  grub 
and  follow  the  same  trail  for  years,  but  there  comes 
a  time  when  they  must  smoke  their  last  pipe  together 
at  the  forks.  But  it's  all  part  of  the  game  and  a 
man  oughtn't  to  grumble  if  he  don't  get  a  pat  hand, 
as  long  as  the  deal's  fair. 

"  Narcisse  and  Jacques  got  to  Benton,  and  when 
they  got  ready  to  start  back,  the  river  had  frozen 
up,  because  the  winter  came  down  early  that  year. 
So  they  had  another  winter  trail  to  follow  together 
before  they  reached  the  forks.  The  factor  at  Benton 
gave  'em  a  couple  of  good  dogs  to  carry  their  bed 
ding  and  they  started  out  afoot. 

"  Jacques  didn't  have  much  to  say.  With  that 
peaked,  set  look  on  his  face  he  went  a-trudging  on 
in  the  snow  from  sunup  to  sundown.  Narcisse 
couldn't  help  feeling  a  little  happy,  because  Paulette 
was  the  prettiest  girl  that  ever  haunted  these  parts 
since  the  river  was  dug.  It  wasn't  any  more  than 
human,  and  he'd  won  fair. 

;'  Well,  they  passed  Union  and  they  passed  Les 
Mandanes  and  they  passed  Roubideaux',  and  then 
there  was  a  long  stretch  of  lonesome  country  ahead 
of  'em  till  they  got  to  Brown's  Landing,  about  two 
hundred  miles  above  Pierre. 

"  One  day  it  came  on  to  blow  and  snow,  and  they 
made  a  camp  in  the  bluff  just  like  we  did  here. 
That's  what  reminded  me  of  the  story.  Jacques 
made  camp  while  Narcisse  was  chopping  wood.  He 


68  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

cut  down  a  dead  cottonwood  and  when  it  came  down, 
he  tripped  up  in  the  deep  snow  and  the  tree  fell  on 
him.  Broke  his  leg  above  the  ankle.  Well,  there  he 
was  a  couple  hundred  miles  toward  Nowhere  in 
November  with  one  leg. 

"  Pretty  hard  on  Narcisse,  wasn't  it?  But  Jacques 
all  at  once  began  to  be  his  old  self  again.  Set  the 
leg  as  good  as  he  could  and  tied  it  up  so  it  would 
stay  in  place,  and  joked  and  was  kind  to  Narcisse. 

"  '  Seems  like  old  times,  pard,'  said  Narcisse  to 
Jacques.  4  Danged  if  I  wouldn't  be  glad  it  hap 
pened  if  we  wasn't  so  far  from  somewheres;  because 
we  mustn't  let  the  trail  fork,  old  pard.  I  knew  you'd 
be  the  same  again  when  I  was  hard  run.' 

"  And  Jacques  smiled  and  said  there  never  was 
any  hard  feeling,  he  guessed.  But  the  peaked  look 
didn't  go  away,  nor  the  far-away  look  in  the  eyes. 

u  When  the  weather  cleared  up,  Jacques  said  he'd 
leave  a  plenty  of  wood  and  grub  for  Narcisse  and 
he'd  make  a  run  for  Brown's  Landing  and  come  back 
with  dogs  and  a  sled.  And  that  made  Narcisse's 
heart  warm  toward  Jacques,  because  it  was  just  like 
he  was  before  the  girl  came  between  'em. 

"  And  Jacques  left  before  sunup  one  morning,  and 
when  it  came  day  Narcisse  went  to  fix  him  some 
breakfast,  and  there  was  only  enough  grub  left  for 
five  or  six  days.  That  scared  him,  because  it  was  a 
long  trip  to  Brown's  and  back,  and  he  couldn't  walk. 

"  But  he  didn't  cuss  Jacques.  He  just  said  to  him 
self  :  '  He  didn't  go  to  take  so  much,  and  it  was 


THE    SCARS  69 

dark  when  he  left.'  And  then  he  just  took  the  hand 
that  was  dealt  him  and  began  playing  against  a  run 
of  hard  luck.  The  grub  lasted  only  about  a  week, 
and  close  picking  at  that.  Jacques  had  plenty  of 
wood  chopped  up,  and  Narcisse  sat  all  day  by  the 
fire  with  his  leg  aching  and  his  stomach  a-gnawing, 
a-looking  down  the  white  waste  towards  Brown's. 
And  night  'd  come  and  no  dog  sled.  Then  day  'd 
come  and  he'd  begin  looking,  looking.  And  when 
the  grub  was  all  gone,  he  soaked  up  all  the  leather 
there  was  about  him  and  sucked  that.  And  then  he'd 
begin  looking,  looking,  looking  into  the  white  waste, 
till  he  got  so's  he  could  see  dozens  of  dog  sleds  com 
ing  and  vanishing,  coming  and  vanishing. 

"But  he  didn't  cuss  Jacques.  He  said:  'The 
poor  devil's  been  killed  like  as  not;  he  wouldn't  go 
back  on  his  pard.'  And  one  day  he  felt  he  was  get 
ting  too  weak  to  watch  much  more,  and  so  he  set  a 
pole  in  the  snow  with  a  strip  of  blanket  tied  to  it; 
and  that  tuckered  him  out  so's  he  couldn't  hardly 
crawl  back  to  shelter.  And  with  the  last  strength  he 
had,  he  dragged  the  wood  that  was  left  up  close  to 
him  where  he  could  reach  it,  because  he  knew  that 
in  another  day  he  couldn't  get  up. 

"  And  then  he  began  forgetting  everything  'most, 
and  having  bad  dreams  that  scared  him,  all  the  time 
a-worrying  about  the  fire  like  as  if  he  was  half 
asleep,  and  hearing  dogs  barking,  and  trying  to 
get  up. 

"  And  then  at  last  he  didn't  know  anything,  till  he 


70  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

was  on  a  dog  sled  with  the  feel  of  hot  soup  in  his 
belly.  And  when  he  came  to,  he  said:  'I  knowed 
you'd  come,  Jacques;  it  was  hard  sledding  without 
the  grub,  though/ 

"  And  then  he  found  out  it  wasn't  Jacques  at  all; 
only  some  Jesuit  missionaries  travelling  from  the 
North.  They'd  seen  his  signal  of  distress  a-flying, 
and  had  come  and  got  him. 

"  And  still  Narcisse  didn't  cuss  Jacques.  He  said: 
*  Poor  devil's  got  killed  or  something.' 

"  And  by  and  by  the  Jesuits  got  him  to  Brown's 
Landing,  and  he  laid  up  there  till  the  last  of  Decem 
ber,  getting  so  he  could  walk.  There  wasn't  anybody 
at  Brown's  who  had  seen  Jacques;  and  Narcisse's 
heart  ached;  he  thought  sure  Jacques  was  dead. 

"  And  when  Narcisse  got  well,  he  borrowed  a  horse 
from  the  factor  at  Brown's  and  went  south  to  Pierre. 
It  was  night  when  he  got  to  the  post.  He  rode  up 
to  the  cabin  where  he  and  Jacques  bached  together, 
and  tied  his  horse.  There  was  a  cheery  light  coming 
out  of  the  windows,  and  that  seemed  odd,  seeing 
that  Jacques  was  likely  dead  somewheres  up  the  trail. 
And  what  seemed  stranger,  there  was  someone  sing 
ing  inside,  and  every  now  and  then  a  woman  'd  laugh. 
God!  man,  did  you  ever  hear  a  woman  laughing 
when  your  heart  had  been  aching  for  weeks? 

"  *  Beats  the  devil !  '  Narcisse  thought,  *  how  quick 
folks  fill  your  place  when  you're  dead !  '  Gave  him  a 
tight  feeling  in  the  throat  to  think  how  someone  was 
laughing  inside,  and  Jacques  somewheres  up  trail 


THE    SCARS  71 

with  the  coyotes  sniffing  at  him  and  the  snow  blow 
ing  over  him  all  day  and  all  night  I 

"  Then  Narcisse  slips  up  quiet  as  could  be  to  the 
window  and  peeps  in.  He  falls  back  like  someone 
had  hit  him  hard  in  the  face.  But  nobody  had.  All 
he  saw  inside  was  Paulette  and  Jacques! 

"  Narcisse  leans  against  the  cabin,  dazed  like,  for 
quite  a  spell.  Seemed  like  he  couldn't  get  it  all 
through  his  head  at  once.  Then  he  saw  it  all — the 
cards  had  been  stacked  on  him.  He  should  Ve  been 
dead  and  he  wasn't.  That  was  the  trouble. 

"  Didn't  cuss  Jacques  even  then,  Narcisse  didn't. 
Wasn't  mad — just  ached  in  his  chest  like.  And  by 
and  by  he  goes  up  to  the  window  and  taps  on  it  with 
his  fingers.  And  Jacques  comes  out  into  the  star 
light,  whistling. 

"  When  he  runs  into  Narcisse  a-tottering  around 
the  corner  like  a  drunken  man,  he  gasps  and  leans 
against  the  cabin,  a-holding  on  to  it  and  staring. 

"  '  Good  God ! '  he  wheezes.    '  Good  God ! ' 

"  *  Old  pard,'  says  Narcisse;  and  his  voice  was 
like  it  had  smoke  in  it,  *  you  win ;  I  pass ;  mine's  a 
bob-tail  flush;  but  you  stacked  the  deck!  ' 

"  *  For  Christ's  sake,  Narcisse,'  whispers  Jacques, 
*  don't  let  her  see  you !     Don't  let  her  hear  you ! 
Come  on !  ' 

"  And  he  takes  down  toward  the  river,  a-walking 
like  the  devil  was  after  him;  but  it  wasn't  anybody 
but  Narcisse,  limping  a  little  with  the  bad  leg. 

"  And  when  they  came  to  the  river  Jacques  didn't 


72  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

seem  to  have  anything  to  say  but  '  O,  it's  a  devil 
of  a  mess !  A  hell  of  a  mess !  '  Said  it  over  and 
over  like  he  was  half  crazy.  And  Narcisse  said: 
4  Last  fall  Fd  have  killed  the  man  who'd  said  this 
about  you,  Jacques.  It  isn't  the  girl  so  much, 
Jacques;  but  you  and  I  have  starved  and  frozen 
together  many's  the  time,  and  we  always  split  fair 
till  now.  It  was  hard  sledding  up  there  without  the 
grub  and  with  only  one  leg.  You  stole  the  cards  on 
me  this  deal,  Jacques;  but  I'm  not  going  to  call  for 
a  new  deal.  I'll  play  the  hand.' 

"  Just  that  way  Narcisse  said  it.  And  with 
Jacques  muttering,  '  O,  it's  a  devil  of  a  mess,'  they 
came  to  an  air  hole  where  the  black  water  was  gurg 
ling  and  chuckling. 

"And  all  at  once  Jacques  flared  up  and  snarled: 
4  Why  in  hell  didn't  you  die  ?  '  And  slashing  out 
with  a  long  knife,  he  made  a  long  gash  in  Narcisse's 
scalp,  and  gave  him  a  shove  toward  the  hole.  But  he 
didn't  go  in,  Narcisse  didn't.  He's  got  that  scar  yet, 
but  he's  got  a  deeper  one  where  nobody  sees. 

"  And  then  Narcisse  somehow  forgot  the  long 
trails  they'd  tramped  together  and  the  starvings  and 
the  freezings  together.  Couldn't  think  of  anything 
but  the  sting  of  the  knife  and  the  trickle  of  the  blood. 
And  the  white  starlight  swam  round  him  like  water 
in  a  suck  hole,  and  got  red  like  blood,  and  buzzed 
and  hummed.  And  he  was  a  better  man  than  Jacques 
— better  fighter.  And  when  the  light  quit  swimming 
around  and  got  white  again  and  the  stillness  of  the 


THE    SCARS  73 

frozen  night  came  back,  Narcisse  found  himself  sob 
bing  and  turning  his  heel  round  and  round  in  some 
body's  mouth.  And  it  was  Jacques. 

"And  what  does  Narcisse  get?" 

The  man,  after  finishing  his  tale,  took  a  handker 
chief  from  his  pocket,  carefully  placed  it  about  his 
throat  like  a  halter,  threw  his  head  to  one  side  and 
simulated  strangulation. 

We  didn't  tell  any  more  stories  after  that.  When 
night  came  we  rolled  up  in  our  blankets,  after  having 
made  a  rousing  fire.  I  did  not  sleep  much  that  night. 
The  man  did,  however.  He  was  the  coolest  I  ever 
saw.  Went  to  sleep  like  a  child,  knowing  full  well 
that  he  too  had  a  noose  awaiting  him. 

When  I  was  sure  that  he  was  sound  asleep,  I  got 
up  and  carefully  took  off  his  bearskin  cap,  which 
he  had  not  removed  night  or  day  since  we  had  been 
together. 

I  saw  by  the  blue  glow  of  the  falling  embers  that 
which  I  had  expected  to  see — a  long,  ugly  gash  run 
ning  across  his  scalp.  It  was  not  yet  quite  healed. 

In  the  morning,  as  the  storm  had  died  in  the  night, 
we  saddled  up.  "  You  take  the  mule  and  go  on 
ahead,"  I  said;  "  I'll  probably  catch  up  with  you  by 


noon." 


The  man  obeyed.     I  did  not  expect  to  catch  up 
with  him,  but  along  about  noon  I  overtook  him. 
"  You  seem  determined  to  travel  my  way,"  I  said. 
He  stared  at  me  for  some  time,  and  then  said 


74  THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

quietly:  "  I'm  not  a  coward  just  because  I'm  going 
to  hang." 

And  we  rode  on  together. 

The  next  morning  when  we  had  saddled  up,  I  said: 
"  Narcisse,  here  is  one  of  my  six-shooters  and  some 
ammunition.  There  is  the  grub.  If  you  travel  west 
far  enough,  you  will  come  at  last  to  the  gold  coun 
try.  Ever  think  of  going  to  the  gold  country?  " 

The  man  gasped  and  placed  his  hand  to  his  head. 
"  When  did  I  have  my  cap  off?  "  said  he. 

"  You  have  a  good  mule  there,"  continued  I,  evad 
ing  his  question.  "  You  have  grub,  a  gun  and  am 
munition.  Why  don't  you  go  west?  " 

"  Why  are  you  saying  that?  "  he  said. 

"  Because,"  I  answered,  u  because  I  have  seen 
both  scars!" 

A  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  And  you?  "  he  questioned. 

"I?"  said  I;  "well  I,  while  conducting  a  pris 
oner  southward,  was  attacked  by  Indians.  The 
prisoner  was  killed  while  defending  me  with  unusual 
bravery.  I  lost  all  my  grub,  one  gun,  some  ammuni 
tion  and  a  mule.  I  barely  escaped  with  my  life,  and 
rode  like  the  very  devil  to  get  to  the  next  post.  Go!  " 

I  pointed  west.  The  man  slowly  fastened  the 
grub  sack  on  his  mule,  mounted,  gave  me  a  look 
which  I  have  never  forgotten,  and  rode  west. 

I  have  never  seen  him  since.  As  for  me,  I  got  into 
the  next  post  that  evening  with  a  worn-out  horse  and 
a  tale  of  calamity. 


THE  FADING  OF  SHADOW  FLOWER 

SHE  was  only  a  timid  little  Omaha  maiden  with 
a  pair  of  pensive  eyes,  dark  like  the  thunder 
clouds,  and  like  them,  fraught  with  a  poten 
tial  fire  that  seemed  ever  about  to  spend  its  fury  in 
the  weakness  of  tears.  She  passed  her  childhood 
hours  beside  the  singing  streams  and  in  the  lone 
some  places  where  the  silence  lingered.  The  sunrise 
and  the  sunset  found  her  where  the  wild  flowers 
clustered,  or  where  the  noises  of  the  nesting  birds 
disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  thickets.  For  hers  was 
a  timorous  soul,  and  the  dumb  kindness  of  the  green 
things  was  sweet  to  her. 

So,  as  she  grew  in  this  wise  toward  that  mysteri 
ous  time  when  the  immaturity  of  the  girl  bursts  into 
the  magic  of  the  woman,  her  people  said:  "She 
talks  with  the  things  that  talk  not;  she  plays  with 
the  wind  that  sleeps  and  moans  in  the  shadowy 
place."  And  that  is  why  they  named  her  Shadow 
Flower. 

In  the  long,  mysterious  nights  of  the  winter, 
Shadow  Flower  wept  with  fear  at  the  mournful  cry 
of  the  coyotes,  and  often  through  the  droning  days 
of  the  summer  did  the  harsh  warning  of  the  startled 
rattlesnake  send  her  trembling  in  terror  to  her 

75 


76  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

mother's  breast.  Yet,  huddled  close  to  the  group 
about  the  evening  fire,  she  loved  to  listen  to  the 
warriors'  tales  of  the  strong  arm  and  the  fierce  heart; 
and  her  eyes  glowed  with  an  unwonted  light  as  her 
kinsmen  recounted  the  wild  swoop  of  the  ambushed 
foe  or  the  silent  pursuit,  swift  and  relentless. 

All  the  glowing  ideals  of  manly  prowess  that  her 
maiden  heart  had  conjured,  were  centred  in  the 
person  of  the  fearless  brave,  Big  Axe;  for  had  he 
not  the  eagle  glance  that  went  to  the  heart  of  an 
enemy  like  an  arrow?  Was  not  his  the  shaggy  head 
of  the  buffalo  bull  that  strikes  with  fear  the  boldest 
hunter?  The  breath  of  his  sinewy  breast  was  like 
a  whirlwind  when  the  battle  cry  awakened  in  his 
throat!  There  was  no  arm  in  all  the  circled  tepees 
that  could  hurl  a  tomahawk  so  straight  and  far;  and 
none  that  could  heave  above  the  anger  of  the  battle 
a  war  club  more  ponderous ! 

"  Ah,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  while  wandering 
alone  with  her  musings,  "  Big  Axe  is  so  great  a 
man!" 

When  a  band  of  warriors  rode  out  of  the  village, 
bent  upon  some  petty  conquest  somewhere  beyond 
the  blue  hills  that  undulated  the  horizon  with  their 
summits,  Shadow  Flower  would  become  very  lonely, 
and  she  would  stand  for  long  hours  upon  some 
larger  hill,  scanning  the  dim  sky  line  for  the  return 
ing  warriors;  for  where  the  battle  was,  there  was 
Big  Axe.  And  when  at  last  she  would  catch  sight 
of  the  returning  band,  shouting  with  the  great  joy 


THE   FADING   OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    77 

of  a  battle  won,  how  proudly  she  stared,  and  with 
what  a  light  in  her  eyes,  at  her  graceful  warrior 
astride  his  swift  pony!  How  anxiously  would  she 
search  the  headdress  of  her  brave  for  the  fresh  eagle 
feather  that  should  speak  of  some  late  deed  done  by 
the  strong  arm — her  strong  arm! 

Yet  her  timorous  little  soul  alone  knew  of  the 
great  overflowing  passion  that  she  treasured  for  Big 
Axe;  unless,  perhaps,  the  birds  and  the  green  things 
understood  her,  for  hers  was  a  passion  that  little 
words  could  not  carry. 

Thus  did  the  frail  flower  long  for  the  golden 
kisses  of  the  sun ! 

There  was  war  between  the  Omaha  and  Ponca 
tribes.  So  it  happened  one  morning,  in  the  time 
when  the  deer  tear  the  earth  with  their  horns,  that 
Shadow  Flower,  hunting  late  blossoms  upon  the  sere 
hills  where  the  young  Dawn  danced,  heard  below 
her  the  impatient  stamp  of  ponies,  and  beheld  the 
mounting  of  braves,  for  Big  Axe  was  leading  a  party 
of  a  hundred  warriors  against  the  enemy. 

The  purple  spikes  of  the  ironweed  and  the  yellow 
plumes  of  the  golden-rod  dropped  from  her  fingers 
as  she  gazed  upon  the  sight  below  her.  What  a 
sight!  It  was  as  the  marshalling  of  the  incarnate 
Winds  from  the  circle  of  the  heavens.  Out  of  the 
dust  cloud  that  arose  from  the  dry  earth  where  four 
hundred  nervous  hoofs  fretted  with  impatience  be 
neath  the  restraining  thongs,  she  caught  the  dazzle 
of  the  sleek  and  vari-coloured  hides  of  the  ponies; 


78  THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

some  white  with  the  brilliance  of  the  summer  sun 
when  it  glares  upon  the  false  lakes  of  alkali;  some 
spotted  and  wiry  as  the  wild  cat;  some  tawny  as  the 
mountain  lion;  some  black  like  the  midnight  when 
the  storm  clouds  fly. 

Their  gaunt  flanks  were  heaving  with  the  joy  of 
speed  and  power.  Their  nostrils  were  distent  with 
the  influx  of  prairie  winds  that  know  no  restraining 
hand  save  that  of  the  great  invisible  Master.  They 
snorted  and  reared  as  if  about  to  plunge  in  a  wild 
heat  down  the  winds.  Their  neighing  was  the  shout 
of  the  tempest  in  the  rocks,  and  their  gusty  manes 
were  as  clouds  that  tatter  in  the  storm. 

And  amid  this  melee  of  dust  and  noise  and  dazzle 
trembled  the  gaudy  headdresses  of  the  warriors, 
bright  with  the  painted  wing  feathers  of  the  eagle 
and  the  hawk. 

Now  a  shout  drowns  the  neighing  and  the  snort 
ing.  A  hundred  braves  leap  to  the  backs  of  the 
plunging  ponies.  The  dust  cloud  thickens  and 
sweeps  down  the  valley  like  a  whirlwind.  A  far 
glint  of  brandished  weapons;  a  dying  shout;  the 
band  swoops  about  the  base  of  a  hill.  Then  the 
sultry  day  drones  and  drowses  on  the  prairie.  The 
grasshopper  breaks  the  slumber  of  the  stillness  with 
his  snapping  noise;  a  lone  hawk  skirts  the  ground 
with  slow,  circling  flight.  But  Shadow  Flower 
stands  and  stares  beneath  a  shading  hand  into  the 
brilliance  where  the  warriors  vanished.  Her  ears 
hear  not  the  snarl  and  hum  of  the  drowsy  bugs,  nor 


THE   FADING   OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    79 

the  shrill  chatter  of  the  sly  gopher  as  it  rears  its 
striped  body  from  the  grass  and  peers  about.  She 
sees  not  the  circling  hawk  and  scarcely  does  the  glit 
ter  of  the  yellow  grass  hurt  her  eyes.  For  her  ears 
are  filled  with  the  shout  that  has  died,  and  in  her 
eyes  a  sinewy,  masterful  brave  urges  a  black  pony 
down  the  valley. 

After  a  while  her  hand  dropped  from  her  eyes, 
and  catching  sight  of  the  circling  hawk,  she  cried: 
"  O  you  who  are  so  keen  of  eye,  tell  me,  can  you 
not  see  into  the  heart  of  Muzape  Tunga  [Big  Axe]  ? 
O  you  who  are  so  keen  of  thought,  tell  me,  does  he 
think  of  Pazha  Hu  [Shadow  Flower]  ?  " 

But  the  hawk  circled  far  away  and  the  day 
droned  on. 

Among  the  hills,  hidden  from  one  who  looked  and 
saw  not,  the  war  party  rode  on  with  the  noses  of 
its  ponies  to  that  portion  of  the  sky  from  which  the 
red  sun  of  summer  springs,  for  in  that  direction  lay 
the  village  of  the  Poncas,  perched  upon  the  yellow 
bluffs  of  the  great  muddy  river. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  the  air  grew  soft 
with  the  scent  of  flowing  waters,  and  the  Omahas, 
checking  their  ponies  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill,  beheld 
to  their  right  the  swirling  stream,  red  with  the  last 
light  of  the  day;  and  before  them,  across  a  deep 
hollow,  the  village  of  the  Poncas,  upon  the  summit 
of  a  bluff. 

But  while  their  eyes  wandered  over  the  misty 
stretches  of  the  river,  a  wild  shout  startled  the  calm 


8o  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

of  the  scene,  while  from  the  village  on  the  opposite 
summit  a  line  of  mounted  warriors  issued,  taking 
the  precipitous  hillside  at  a  brisk  gallop. 

The  sudden  shout  and  the  beat  of  flying  hoofs 
hurled  the  weary  ponies  of  the  Omahas  back  upon 
their  haunches.  Yet  scarcely  had  the  echoes  of  the 
shout  cried  their  last  among  the  distant  bluffs,  when 
a  hundred  Omaha  bow  thongs  twanged  and  a  hun 
dred  arrows  shrieked  their  shrill  death-song  in  the 
quiet  evening  air.  A  second  and  a  third  flight  of 
arrows,  and  the  rushing  Poncas  were  thrown  into 
confusion.  Those  in  the  rear  were  thrown  by  the 
floundering  bodies  of  the  wounded  ponies  in  the 
front,  the  fury  of  their  momentum  hurling  them 
pellmell  into  the  valley  below.  Then  the  Omahas 
swept  down  the  valley,  as  the  eagle  sweeps,  with  the 
battle  cry  upon  their  lips,  and  the  remnant  of  the 
attacking  Poncas  turned  and  fled  up  the  steep  hill 
side  to  their  village. 

The  village  of  the  Poncas,  in  addition  to  its  strong 
position,  was  further  fortified  by  stockades,  con 
structed  of  saplings  driven  into  the  ground  with  their 
tops  sharpened.  The  fugitives  having  gained  the 
protection  of  this  barrier,  were  safe  from  further 
pursuit,  and  emboldened  by  their  protection,  they 
hurled  such  a  flight  of  arrows  into  the  ranks  of  the 
enraged  Omahas  that  the  latter  were  obliged  to 
withdraw  beyond  arrow  flight,  contenting  themselves 
with  taunting  their  besieged  foes  by  displaying  the 
dripping  scalps  of  the  fallen. 


THE   FADING   OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    81 

Now  the  influence  of  the  fading  evening  cooled 
the  anger  and  hushed  the  shouting.  From  the 
height  whither  the  assaulting  band  withdrew  to 
camp,  one  could  hurl  the  triumphant  gaze  unnum 
bered  bowshots  westward,  athwart  the  brown  hills 
that  seemed  to  have  been  stricken  motionless  in 
liquid  turbulence  by  the  enchantment  of  the  sunset, 
marvellous  with  the  pomp  of  streamers,  violet,  pur 
ple,  saffron,  sanguine,  dun! 

Far  up  the  river  the  blue  haze  of  the  sky-fringed 
woodland  blended  into  the  purple  shadow  beneath 
the  contrasting  yellow  of  the  bluffs,  that  looked 
down  into  the  smooth  waters,  upon  their  own 
scarred  and  wrinkled  images  crowned  with  golden 
crowns  by  the  last  scant  sunlight.  The  cottonwoods 
placed  their  long  shadows  like  soothing  fingers  on 
the  muddy  madness  of  the  central  stream.  The 
Night  awakened  in  the  east  and  stretched  its  long 
black  arms  into  the  west,  and  the  glory  vanished. 
The  distant  woodland  and  the  bluffs  grew  into  indis 
tinguishable  masses.  The  river  became  a  faint  film 
above  a  lower  concave  of  dawning  stars.  The  camp 
fires  in  the  village  reared  long  towers  of  light  into 
the  darkness,  then  fell  back  into  a  sleepy  glow. 

One  dreaming  out  a  sunset  on  the  prairie  cannot 
wonder  at  the  exquisite  hyperbole  of  the  Omaha 
language ;  that  tongue  nurtured  amid  marvellous  pos 
sibilities  of  fury  and  calm,  of  beauty  and  terror,  all 
within  the  sight-tiring  circle  of  stupendous  distance. 

The  dawn  came,  and  by  the  first  light  the  Poncas 


82  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

beheld  their  enemies  camped  across  the  valley. 
Upon  one  side  the  bluff  fell  sheer  to  the  river;  upon 
the  other  lingered  a  cruel  and  patient  foe.  So  it 
happened  that  after  many  days,  moans  of  suffering 
arose  from  the  lodges  on  the  bluff;  and  the  Omahas 
laughed  in  their  tepees,  for  the  sound  of  an  enemy's 
wailing  is  sweet.  The  sweltering  suns  of  the  prairie 
September  beat  upon  the  bare  summit  where  the 
village  pined,  and  the  lips  of  the  Poncas  burned  with 
thirst,  while  their  eyes  drank  of  the  copious  floods 
far  below  them. 

So  it  chanced  one  day,  when  a  cry  went  up  through 
the  village:  "  Our  children  are  dying  of  thirst;  let 
us  beg  mercy  of  our  enemies !  "  that  an  unarmed 
brave  passed  out  of  the  village  and  across  the  valley 
toward  the  camp  of  his  foes.  With  tottering  step 
he  approached  the  tepee  before  which  Big  Axe 
waited.  His  lips  were  swollen  and  cracked;  his  eyes 
were  bleared  and  sunken,  yet  they  glared  as  the  eyes 
of  a  wolf  from  the  darkness  of  a  cavern. 

In  a  hoarse,  inarticulate  whisper  he  spoke  to  the 
chief:  "  Pity  my  people,  for  they  are  dying  of 
thirst!" 

There  was  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  Muzape 
Tunga.  "Badger!"  he  hissed;  and  he  struck  the 
suppliant  down  before  him. 

The  sun  burned  down  the  glaring  blue  of  the  west. 
A  continuous  wail  arose  from  the  suffering  village 
like  the  cry  of  pines  in  a  gentle  wind;  while  from 
the  tepees  of  the  besiegers  came  the  sound  of  merry 


THE   FADING   OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    83 

laughter  that  mocked  like  the  babble  of  inaccessible 
waters. 

But  when  the  red  sun  touched  the  tops  of  the  far 
hills,  another  form  left  the  enclosure  of  the  village 
and  took  its  way  down  the  hillside.  As  it  came 
nearer,  a  hush  of  awe  fell  upon  the  Omahas.  The 
form  was  that  of  a  squaw!  With  an  unfaltering 
movement  she  approached,  seeming  to  hover  through 
the  mist  that  arose  from  the  valley.  Slowly  she 
climbed  the  hillside.  Not  a  sound  passed  the  lips 
of  the  beholders.  They  seemed  the  figures  of  one 
dream  gazing  at  the  central  idea  of  another.  The 
form  emerged  from  the  mist  and  stood,  swathed  in 
the  chromatic  radiance  of  the  evening  before  the 
motionless  figure  of  Muzape  Tunga.  The  eyes  of 
the  woman  and  the  chief  met  in  unwavering  stare. 
Had  the  glance  of  the  former  become  vocal,  it  would 
have  been  a  song  with  the  softness  of  the  mother's 
lullaby,  but  with  a  meaning  terrible  as  the  battle  cry 
of  a  brave. 

With  a  langorous  movement  the  woman  raised 
her  arms,  thus  allowing  the  many-coloured  skin  that 
hung  about  her  shoulders  to  slip  to  the  ground,  ex 
posing  all  the  dumb  eloquence  of  her  brown  breasts. 
Out  of  the  silence  her  voice  broke  like  the  voice  of 
a  sudden  wind  that  rises  in  the  night. 

"  Nunda  Nu  [Man-Heart]  fears  not  Muzape 
Tunga!". 

The  chief  saw  the  lithe  young  form,  heard  the 
soft,  caressing  voice  and  shivered  with  great  passion. 


84  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

A  swift  smile  crossed  the  face  of  the  young 
woman,  soft  as  a  last  ray  of  sunlight  on  a  hill. 
Again  the  voice  grew  out  of  the  hush. 

u  The  heart  of  Muzape  Tunga  is  strong  like 
his  arm  and  kind  like  his  eye;  he  will  spare  my 
people." 

The  chief's  great  breast  heaved  with  the  pleasure 
of  his  eye  and  ear.  "  Nunda  Nu  has  the  heart  of  a 
man  and  the  eye  of  a  woman,"  he  said;  "her  voice 
is  soft  like  the  song  of  a  forest  stream;  Muzape 
Tunga  spares  her  people." 

Nunda  Nu  turned  her  face  to  her  village  and 
made  a  signal  with  her  uplifted  hands.  Soon  an 
unarmed  Ponca,  manifestly  a  chief  by  his  garments, 
was  seen  taking  his  way  down  the  hillside. 

"Come!  "  said  Nunda  Nu,  turning  to  Big  Axe; 
"  my  father  bears  the  pipe  of  peace;  let  us  meet  him 
in  the  valley." 

Without  a  word  the  chief  followed  the  young 
woman,  while  his  warriors  stared  after  in  wonder 
ment.  In  the  valley,  midway  between  the  village 
and  the  camp,  the  chiefs  met.  Then  both  sitting 
cross-legged  upon  the  grass,  the  Ponca  lit  the  pipe 
of  peace,  and  having  puffed  silently  for  a  while, 
handed  it  to  his  conqueror.  The  sweet  smoke  of  the 
red  willow  arose  slowly  over  the  silent  three,  and 
Big  Axe  stared  abstractedly  into  the  mounting  va 
pour.  The  evening  grew  old.  The  sunlight  left 
the  summits  of  the  hills  and  the  shadows  deepened. 
Still  Big  Axe  did  not  speak,  but  gazed  with  wide 


THE   FADING  OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    85 

eyes  into  the  ascending  cloud  of  smoke.  The  heart 
of  the  terrible  warrior  had  grown  tender;  a  light 
softer  than  the  twilight  was  in  his  eye.  It  seemed 
that  he  could  hear  the  slumberous,  singing  voice  of 
a  squaw  and  the  prattle  of  children  about  the  door 
of  his  lodge.  There  were  pictures  for  him  in  the 
rising  smoke. 

Suddenly  he  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  re 
turned  it  to  the  Ponca  chief. 

"We  will  bury  the  tomahawk,"  he  said;  "our 
ponies  shall  sweat  no  more  in  the  battle,  but  in  the 
paths  of  the  bison.  No  more  shall  our  faces  be  cruel 
with  warpaint." 

Again  there  was  silence  but  for  the  rhythmic  puff 
ing  of  the  Ponca's  pipe.  Again  Muzape  Tunga 
spoke,  and  his  voice  was  sonorous  with  passion. 

"  The  eyes  of  Nunda  Nu  are  deep  and  dark  as  a 
mountain  lake;  her  voice  is  a  song  that  the  slow 
winds  sing  in  the  willows.  Give  me  Nunda  Nu  that 
my  lodge  may  be  filled  with  laughter;  give  her  to 
Muzape  Tunga  that  peace  may  be  everlasting  be 
tween  us !  " 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Ponca  forgot  his  pipe; 
he  puffed  deliberately  and  at  long  intervals.  The 
ascending  smoke  dwindled  to  a  thin  grey  thread. 
With  steadfast  gaze  the  smoker  looked  before  him 
into  the  darkness,  for  his  thoughts  were  deep. 

At  length  he  laid  the  pipe  upon  the  grass  and 
arose  to  his  feet,  extending  his  hand  to  Big  Axe. 
His  voice  was  tremulous  as  he  spoke. 


86  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  Muzape  Tunga  asks  a  great  thing  of  his  con 
quered  brother;  had  he  asked  for  a  hundred  ponies, 
with  feet  fleet  as  the  winds  in  winter,  his  brother 
would  have  laughed  at  the  little  gift.  Nunda  Nu  is 
my  life;  I  give  my  life  to  my  brother." 

Already  the  night  had  spread  into  the  west  and 
the  darkness  hid  their  parting. 

Some  days  afterward  at  sunset,  an  Omaha  maiden 
stood  upon  a  hill  near  her  village.  With  hand  at 
brow  she  peered  into  the  blue  distance.  Suddenly  a 
cry  of  delight  trembled  on  her  lips.  A  cloud  of  dust 
had  grown  far  away  upon  the  verge  of  a  hill  to  the 
northeast,  slowly  resolving  itself  into  a  long  line 
of  warriors  approaching  at  a  gallop.  The  column 
drew  nearer.  The  face  of  the  watching  maiden  grew 
darker  with  anxiety,  as  a  brilliant  cloud  darkens 
when  the  twilight  fails.  She  beheld  the  masterful 
form  of  Big  Axe  mounted  upon  a  black  pony,  riding 
in  advance  of  the  band;  yet  her  face  darkened.  Her 
brows  lowered  with  the  strain  of  her  intense  gaze. 
Was  it  a  squaw  that  rode  upon  a  pony  white  as  a 
summer  cloud  beside  her  warrior? 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  village  below.  The 
speed  of  the  ponies  was  increased  to  a  fast  gallop; 
the  band  swept  up  the  valley.  A  strange  low  cry 
fell  from  the  lips  of  the  maiden;  a  stifled  cry  like 
that  of  a  sleeping  brave  who  feels  the  knife  of  the 
treacherous  foeman  at  his  heart. 

In  the  village  was  the  sound  of  many  glad  voices; 


THE   FADING  OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    87 

but  in  the  darkness  of  the  hill  above,  a  frail  form 
buried  its  face  in  the  dry  bunch  grass  and  uttered  a 
moan  that  no  one  heard. 

The  autumn  passed:  the  cold  winds  came  down 
from  the  north,  shaking  the  snow  from  their  black 
wings,  and  the  people  of  the  village  began  to  look 
upon  Shadow  Flower  with  awe.  For  never  a  word 
had  she  spoken  to  anyone  since  the  returning  of  the 
band  in  the  fall.  With  a  dull  light  in  her  eyes  she 
wandered  about  muttering  to  herself:  "  It  was  sum 
mer  when  they  left;  now  the  prairie  is  so  cold  and 
white,  so  cold  and  white." 

Absent-mindedly  she  would  dwell  upon  the  bitter 
words,  gazing  beneath  an  arched  hand  into  the  cold, 
white  glare  of  the  horizon.  Then  her  eyes,  at  times, 
would  blaze  with  gladness.  "  Shonga  saba !  Shonga 
saba!"  (a  black  pony)  she  would  cry  ecstatically; 
and  for  one  intense  moment  her  frail  form  would 
be  erect  and  quivering  with  joy.  Then  the  light  in 
her  eye  would  fade  as  the  fires  fade  in  a  camp  that 
is  deserted;  a  cry  of  anguish  would  fall  from  her 
lips,  her  hand  would  drop  lifelessly  from  her  brow. 
"  No,"  she  would  sigh  languidly;  "  no,  it  is  only  a 
cloud!  O,  the  prairie  is  so  cold  and  white,  so  cold 
and  white !  " 

And  the  old  people  shook  their  heads  and  whis 
pered  to  each  other:  "  The  soul  of  Pazha  Hu  has 
followed  the  summer,  for  her  soul  loved  the  flowers ; 
can  you  not  hear  her  body  crying  for  her  soul?  " 


88  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

When  the  warm  winds  came  again  and  the  hills 
were  green,  the  crying  of  a  young  child  was  heard 
in  the  lodge  of  Muzape  Tunga.  The  simple  heart 
of  the  stern  warrior  throbbed  with  gladness  as  a 
cold  seed  throbs  with  the  blowing  of  the  south 
wind. 

But  the  sound  of  the  infant's  voice  brought  no 
summer  to  the  heart  of  Nunda  Nu.  The  touch  of  its 
little  brown  hands  stung  her  breasts,  and  as  she 
looked  upon  its  face,  placid  or  expressive  as  its 
dreams  took  form  or  slept,  a  cold  shudder  ran 
through  her  veins  as  when  one  gazes  on  a  snake, 
for  it  was  the  child  of  an  enemy. 

All  through  the  long  winter  a  slow  hate  had 
sapped  the  kindness  from  the  heart  of  the  future 
mother;  and  when  she  felt  the  new  life  throbbing 
into  form,  her  thoughts  grew  bitter.  So  now  the 
unforgotten  moaning  of  the  children  of  her  people, 
dying  with  thirst  upon  the  barren  summit,  was  loud 
enough  to  drown  the  prattle  of  her  enemy's  child, 
which  should  have  wrought  enchantment  in  her 
blood. 

One  night  a  noiseless  shadow  passed  among  the 
tepees  hushed  in  slumber  beneath  the  moonlight. 
It  crept  up  to  the  tepee  of  Muzape  Tunga  and 
crouched  beside  it  in  an  attitude  of  listening.  The 
bugs  chirped  and  hummed,  the  frogs  croaked,  the 
wolves  howled  far  away;  save  these  and  a  sleeper's 
heavy  breathing,  there  was  silence. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  faint  sound  as  of  someone 


THE   FADING  OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    89 

moving  in  the  tepee;  the  shadow  outside  arose  and 
the  moonlight  fell  upon  its  haggard  face,  the  face 
of  Shadow  Flower.  She  placed  her  eye  to  a  small 
opening  in  the  skins  that  covered  the  poles.  Now 
she  would  gaze  upon  the  child  of  Muzape  Tunga ! 

Through  the  opening  at  the  top  of  the  tepee  the 
moonlight  entered  with  intense  brilliance  and  fell 
upon  three  faces.  One  was  the  face  of  her  once 
sweet  dream  and  the  face  that  trembled  through  the 
visions  of  her  madness,  Muzape  Tunga's.  One  was 
the  beautiful,  cruel  face  of  her  who  came  upon  a 
pony  white  as  a  summer  cloud  that  autumn  evening 
when  the  sunlight  left  the  prairie.  One  was  a  face 
that  she  had  not  seen  before,  yet  her  poor  heart 
ached  as  she  looked  upon  it.  It  was  the  face  of  his 
child,  her  child.  Ah,  it  should  have  been  the  child 
of  Shadow  Flower,  she  thought,  and  her  brain  reeled 
with  sudden  madness. 

As  she  looked,  the  woman  in  the  tepee  raised  her 
self  upon  her  elbow.  She  gazed  upon  the  peaceful 
face  of  Big  Axe.  The  moon  lit  up  her  features  in 
clear  relief.  Her  eyes  were  terrible  with  hate;  the 
lids  drawn  closely  about  them  until  they  had  the 
small  beady  appearance  of  the  snake's.  Her  lips 
were  drawn  closely  cross  her  white  teeth  in  a  cold 
grin.  Her  form  trembled  as  with  a  chill,  yet  the 
night  was  warm.  Then  she  arose,  and  with  a  noise 
less  step,  sought  for  something  that  hung  upon  the 
side  of  the  tepee.  She  returned  clutching  a  toma 
hawk.  The  light  caught  her  whole  form,  making  it 


90  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

stand  out,  clear-cut  like  a  statue,  the  statue  of  a 
prairie  Judith. 

Then  she  bent  over  the  sleeping  Muzape  Tunga 
for  one  moment.  There  was  a  dull  sound  as  the 
weapon  entered  the  sleeper's  skull;  but  more  than 
this  there  was  no  sound,  no  groan.  And  the  one 
who  stood  like  a  shadow  without  the  tepee  was 
stricken  dumb  with  fright. 

The  woman  within  turned  to  the  sleeping  child 
and  raised  the  dripping  tomahawk;  but  her  arm 
seemed  to  freeze  in  act  to  strike,  and  the  blow  did 
not  fall.  A  strange  soft  light  crept  over  the  face 
of  the  woman.  She  lowered  her  arm  and  laid  the 
weapon  aside.  Then  with  the  step  of  a  wild-cat  she 
crept  to  the  entrance  of  the  tepee  and,  gazing  cau 
tiously  about  for  a  moment,  slipped  silently  into  the 
haze  of  the  moonlight,  and  was  engulfed  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  valley. 

As  the  dim  outline  of  the  fleeing  squaw  mixed 
itself  with  the  uncertain  haze  and  vanished,  a  great 
happiness  leaped  into  the  stagnant  veins  of  Shadow 
Flower,  and  her  blood  rushed  like  a  stream  when 
the  ice  melts  with  the  breath  of  the  south  wind. 

Even  the  thought  that  Big  Axe  lay  dead  within 
the  tepee  did  not  quell  her  happiness,  for  she  said 
to  herself:  "  Now  Pazha  Hu  shall  have  her  war 
rior;  he  shall  be  all  hers." 

She  crept  into  the  tepee  and,  kneeling,  put  her  lips 
to  the  chilling  lips  of  Big  Axe.  He  did  not  breathe. 
She  placed  her  arms  about  his  body,  her  face  against 


THE   FADING  OF  SHADOW   FLOWER    91 

his  breast,  yet  he  did  not  move.  He  lay  quietly  with 
the  intense  moonlight  upon  his  face.  She  did  not 
sob,  she  was  almost  happy;  for  did  she  not  at  last 
possess  that  for  which  she  had  pined? 

Her  musings  were  broken  by  the  crying  of  the 
child.  She  took  it  in  her  arms  and  held  it  to  her 
breast,  humming  a  low  lullaby,  half-persuaded  that 
the  child  was  her  own.  But  the  child  was  frightened 
by  the  strange  voice  and  cried  piteously.  Then 
Shadow  Flower  thought,  "  It  cries  for  its  father,  yet 
its  father  has  gone."  "  Hush !  "  she  said  to  the 
child;  "  we  will  go  and  find  the  soul  of  Muzape 
Tunga;  it  cannot  be  far  away." 

She  wrapped  a  blanket  about  the  infant,  muffling 
its  cries,  and  tied  it  about  her  shoulders.  Then  she 
went  silently  through  the  village  and  out  into  the 
open  prairie,  weird  with  the  blue  haze  of  the  moon 
and  the  lonesome  cries  of  the  wolves. 

A  rabbit  hopped  past  and  stopped  near  her  as  if 
gazing  at  the  maiden. 

UO  Rabbit!"  cried  Shadow  Flower,  "  tell  me, 
have  you  seen  the  soul  of  Muzape  Tunga?  " 

The  rabbit,  awed  by  the  strangeness  of  the  voice, 
moved  its  long  ears;  then  it  hopped  away  into  the 
shades.  The  maiden  followed  and  was  swallowed 
in  the  moonlit  mist. 

When  the  sun  looked  into  the  village,  the  women 
were  stricken  with  terror  and  the  men  with  anger. 
The  wise  people  shook  their  heads  by  which  to 


92  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

say:  "Ah,  yes;  we  thought  such  things  of  Nunda 
Nu." 

The  days  passed;  the  moons  came  and  went;  yet 
Shadow  Flower  did  not  return.  There  was  a  com 
mon  thought  concerning  her  disappearance  which 
was  never  spoken  aloud;  but  when  the  fires  burned 
low  and  the  night  grew  late,  it  was  often  whispered 
with  awe: 

"  She  has  gone  in  search  of  her  soul;  it  fled  last 
year  with  the  summer." 


VI 

THE    ART    OF    HATE 

MANY  tales  have  been  told  of  noble  sacrifice 
for  love,  and  I  have  seen  such  in  my  time ; 
but  I  have  in  mind  an  instance  in  which  a 
man  reached  a  sublime  height  through  the  least  ex 
alted  of  human  passions — hate. 

There  are  some  who  argue  that  love  is  born  at 
first  sight.  However  that  be,  I  am  certain  that  it  is 
often  thus  with  hate.  I  have  seen  men  in  my  time 
the  first  sight  of  whom  was  an  insult  to  me — sudden, 
stinging  like  a  slap  on  the  cheek.  It  is  a  strange 
thing,  and  I  have  never  heard  it  explained  satisfac 
torily.  Sometimes  in  my  own  case  I  have  attributed 
it  to  even  so  slight  a  thing  as  a  certain  turn  of  the 
nose,  a  curve  of  the  lip,  a  droop  of  the  eye.  And 
again  I  have  felt  that  it  was  due  to  nothing  visible 
about  the  man,  but  rather  to  some  subtle  emanation 
from  the  very  soul  of  him,  that  maddened  me  as 
though  I  had  inhaled  the  fumes  of  some  devilish 
drug.  Have  you  ever  felt  this? 

Well,  I  am  telling  you  about  Zephyr  Recontre. 

He  was  a  little,  wiry  half-breed,  with  a  French 
father  and  a  woman  of  the  Blackfeet  tribe  for  a 
mother.  Quite  a  promising  combination,  if  you  think 
it  overl  I  came  across  him  'way  up  at  Fort  Union 

93 


94  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

in  the  early  '30*5,  when  I  was  in  charge  of  a  keel 
boat  of  the  American  Fur  Company.  He  was  em 
ployed  at  the  Fort  as  interpreter,  being  a  fluent 
speaker  of  several  Indian  tongues  as  well  as  English 
and  French. 

His  forehead  was  a  narrow  strip  of  brown  be 
tween  his  wiry  black  hair  and  the  continuous  streak 
of  black  that  was  his  eyebrows.  His  eyes  were  large 
and  black  and  quiet.  His  cheek  bones  were  promi 
nent  and  his  jaw  was  so  heavy  as  to  throw  his  whole 
face  out  of  balance,  as  you  might  say.  The  face  of 
a  stayer,  you  know.  Never  said  much  except  as  his 
duties  demanded,  and  then  he  went  straight  to  the 
point  with  a  quiet  directness  that  left  little  need  for 
a  question. 

Superb  little  animal  he  was,  too;  had  the  maxi 
mum  strength  with  the  minimum  weight,  and  a  cool 
head  to  run  it  with.  I  never  saw  him  impelled  by 
sudden  anger  except  once,  and  that  is  where  the  story 
begins. 

In  the  spring  of  '39  I  took  charge  of  the  steam 
boat  Yellowstone,  as  captain.  We  were  loaded  with 
supplies  for  the  American  Fur  Company's  posts  on 
the  upper  Missouri,  and  carried  a  number  of  en 
gages  of  the  Company,  and  a  certain  Frenchman, 
Jules  Latour,  who  had  been  appointed  bour 
geois  of  the  old  Fort  Union,  and  was  going  up  to  take 
charge. 

If  there  ever  was  an  emperor  in  this  country  it 
was  J.  J.  Astor,  the  head  of  the  Company  at  that  time, 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  95 

and  his  empire  was  spread  pretty  much  all  over  the 
white  space  on  the  map  of  the  West  as  it  stood  then. 
The  bourgeois,  masters  of  the  trading  posts,  were  the 
proconsuls,  and  they  acted  the  part. 

The  engages,  humble  servants  of  the  empire,  were 
as  dogs  about  the  feet  of  these  Western  princes,  who 
stalked  through  their  provinces,  mountain-high  in 
aristocratic  aloofness. 

Latour  outprinced  princeliness.  He  felt  his  dig 
nity  and  dressed  it ;  his  presence  on  the  boat  was  like 
a  continual  blowing  of  trumpets  going  before  a  con 
queror.  A  capital  "  I  "  swaggering  in  broadcloth — 
that  was  Latour! 

Recontre  was  going  back  with  us,  having  dropped 
down  to  St.  Louis  the  fall  before  on  Company  busi 
ness.  I  happened  to  be  near  when  master  and  man 
first  met  on  the  forward  deck.  They  stared  upon 
each  other  for  only  a  moment;  but  there  were  years 
of  hate  condensed  in  that  bit  of  time,  the  master 
casting  a  contemptuous  glance  from  beneath,  lids 
scornfully  drooped,  and  the  servant  meeting  this  with 
a  sudden  glare  of  black  fire. 

Not  a  word  was  passed;  Recontre  made  no  sign 
of  obeisance,  passing  on  with  a  sullen  swing,  his  jaws 
set  firmly,  his  eyes  brilliant  as  with  a  smouldering  fire 
blown  by  a  gusty  wind  into  a  baleful  glow. 

It  was  a  plain  case  of  hate  at  first  sight.  A  week 
later,  after  we  had  passed  St.  Mary's,  I  was  standing 
on  the  hurricane  deck,  gazing  downstream  where 
the  colours  of  a  quiet  'sunset  swept  the  waters.  I 


96  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

heard  an  angry  snarl  below  me,  and  looking  down, 
I  saw  Recontre  lift  the  struggling  Latour  in  his  arms 
and  hurl  him  into  the  river. 

I  immediately  stopped  the  boat  and  ordered  a 
crew  to  man  the  yawl  and  rescue  Latour,  at  the  same 
time  having  Recontre  seized. 

Latour  came  aboard  coughing  and  spitting,  a  most 
ludicrous  object.  But  to  my  surprise,  he  immediately 
commanded  that  Recontre  should  be  released.  I 
wondered  much  at  this  at  the  time;  but  ten  years 
later  I  had  a  talk  with  Recontre,  which  threw  some 
light  on  the  subject.  He  was  leaving  the  country, 
and,  as  we  had  become  close  friends,  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  tell  me  what  he  had  kept  a  close  secret 
for  years. 

We  were  taking  a  friendly  glass  together  at  a  St. 
Louis  bar,  when  I  purposely  brought  up  the  name 
of  Jules  Latour,  who  had  starved  to  death  some  years 
before  in  a  mackinaw  boat  that  got  caught  in  the  ice 
far  up  the  river.  I  had  heard  stories  of  how  Re 
contre,  who  was  with  Latour  on  the  trip,  had  shown 
a  faithfulness  to  his  master  equalled  only  by  the  faith 
fulness  of  a  dog  to  a  man.  This  had  always  seemed 
strange  to  me,  and  so  I  brought  up  Jules  Latour. 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  I  saw  the  black  fire 
grow  up  in  my  companion's  eyes,-  just  as  I  had  seen 
it  ten  years  before  on  the  forward  deck  of  the  Yellow- 
stone. 

"You  got  that  story,  too,  did  you?"  he  said 
dreamily,  staring  straight  ahead  of  him  as  into  a 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  9? 

great  distance.  "  Well,  it's  all  over  now,  and  for 
the  first  time,  I  am  going  to  tell  the  truth  about 
the  death  of  Latour  and  my  great  faithfulness. 
When  I  first  saw  that  man,  I  felt  as  though  he  had 
struck  me  between  the  eyes  with  his  white  fist.  I 
hated  him  as  I  had  never  hated  before,  and  as  I 
hope  never  to  hate  again.  It  hurts  to  hate;  it  eats 
into  a  man  like  some  incurable  blood  disease. 

'  You  saw  me  throw  him  into  the  water.  I  can 
hardly  explain  why  I  did  that;  only,  the  man  spoke 
to  me  in  a  way  that  insulted  me  more  than  if  he 
had  blackguarded  my  mother.  It  wasn't  in  the  words, 
for  I  have  forgotten  what  he  said. 

;t  We  hated  each  other.  I  knew  how  much  I 
hated,  but  I  did  not  know  how  great  was  his  hate 
until  he  smilingly  ordered  my  release.  I  knew  then 
that  his  hate  was  a  great  hate — stronger  than  love 
can  be.  And  also  I  knew  that  this  hate  would  grow 
until  one  of  us  was  killed.  And  it  did." 

"  What !  "  said  I ;  "  did  you  kill  Latour  ?  " 

Recontre  smiled  one  of  his  enigmatic  smiles  and 
said  quietly :  "  Nature  killed  Latour ;  /  merely 
helped  Nature !  " 

And  then  he  laughed  softly,  while  the  black  fire 
grew  again  in  his  eyes. 

Recontre  led  the  way  to  a  table  in  the  back  of 
the  room  and  we  sat  down,  when  he  began  talking 
rapidly,  never  hesitating  in  his  story,  and  seeming, 
at  times,  wholly  unconscious  of  my  presence. 

"  When  we  arrived  at  Fort  Union,"  said  he,  "  no 


98  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

one  could  have  guessed  the  hate  that  we  nursed 
for  each  other.  Being  a  new  man  in  the  country, 
Latour  consulted  me  upon  many  phases  of  the  busi 
ness,  and  we  were  much  together.  The  whole  post 
considered  me  a  most  favoured  person;  little  know 
ing,  as  I  did,  that  hate  can  bind  two  persons  as 
closely  as  love. 

"  My  hatred  for  the  man  made  his  a  most  fas 
cinating  personality  to  me;  and  I  often  found  him 
studying  my  face  with  a  diabolical  fondness. 

"  Latour  heaped  favours  upon  me,  and  I  received 
them  with  a  strange  gladness  of  heart  that  even  now 
I  cannot  explain.  One  day  in  November  he  sent 
for  me  to  come  to  his  office.  I  found  him  in  a  mood 
seemingly  most  agreeable.  His  face  beamed  with 
a  light  that  any  other  would  have  taken  for  kindness. 
I  saw  in  it  only  the  ecstatic  anticipation  of  triumph. 
And  when  he  spoke  I  knew  that  I  was  right. 

"  '  My  dear  Recontre,'  said  he,  *  it  seems  that  I 
am  forced  to  fall  back  upon  you  for  everything.  I 
have  a  difficult  task  on  hand,  and  you  are  the  one 
man  to  perform  it;  I  know  of  no  other  so  peculiarly 
fitted  for  it.  I  shall  carefully  lay  before  you  the 
dangers  of  the  mission  I  have  in  mind,  leaving  you 
free  to  consent  or  refuse  just  as  you  see  fit.  Perhaps 
the  undertaking  is  impossible.  It  may  be  that  no 
man  is  sufficiently  equipped  with  strength  and  daring 
to  do  what  I  wish.  You  shall  decide.' 

"  You  see  he  imagined  that  he  was  wheedling  me 
through  my  vanity.  He  then  stated  that  he  wished 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  99 

to  open  trade  with  the  Blackfeet  tribe.  He  drew 
strongly  upon  his  imagination  to  explain  the  great 
dangers  in  store  for  him  who  should  undertake  the 
task.  The  Blackfeet  were  at  that  time  deadly  ene 
mies  of  the  whites.  They  had  killed  and  mutilated  a 
number  of  traders.  I  would  of  course  stand  a  poor 
chance  of  coming  back  alive.  He  was  convinced  of 
that. 

4  Will  you  go,  Recontre?'  said  he,  staring 
steadily  into  my  eyes. 

"  I  was  dumbfounded  at  the  audacity  of  the  man. 
I  saw  the  light  of  doubt  wavering  in  his  eyes ;  but  I 
did  not  wish  to  flinch  before  my  enemy. 

4  Certainly/  said  I ;  *  and  I  will  go  alone ! ' 

"  I  saw  the  triumph  glisten  in  his  eye. 

'Very  well,'  said  he;  'you  may  start  in  the 
morning.  Make  your  own  arrangements.  I  give 
you  full  power  to  transact  the  business  in  hand  as 
your  wisdom  may  dictate.' 

"  And  I  started  in  the  morning.  Two  weeks  later 
I  returned,  successful  beyond  all  hope.  I  not  only 
brought  back  a  band  of  the  leading  men  of  the  tribe 
for  a  council,  but  I  brought  also  a  young  woman 
for  my  wife.  I  called  her  Pelagie  after  one  of  my 
sisters. 

"  As  I  think  of  it  now  it  seems  miraculous  that  I 
succeeded.  I  am  half  convinced  that  I  was  inspired 
from  out  the  profundity  of  my  hate  to  do  and  say  the 
right  things. 

"  Latour  played  skilfully  the  part  of  gratitude  and 


ioo  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

joy,  but  I  saw,  nevertheless,  the  deep,  devilish  dis 
appointment  that  he  felt.  And  I  was  very  glad,  for 
I  had  conquered  in  this  first  combat;  and  also  Pela 
gic  was  a  pleasant  woman. 

"  As  the  winter  deepened,  Latour  and  I  became 
more  and  more  inseparable.  We  outdid  each  other 
in  acts  of  seeming  kindness,  until  all  the  post  was 
jealous  of  my  intimacy  with  the  master. 

"  They  little  guessed  how  we  played  a  ghastly 
game  that  would  be  finished  only  when  one  of  us 
could  smirk  and  flatter  no  more. 

"  The  winter  grew  bitter;  heavy  snows  fell.  And 
I  wondered  much  what  great  honour  Latour  would 
heap  upon  me  next,  seeing  that  I  was  so  capable  and 
willing.  Near  Christmas  Latour  called  me  to  his 
office,  and  the  light  of  anticipated  triumph  was  upon 
his  face. 

"  l  My  friend/  said  he;  *  I  do  not  wish  to  impose 
upon  you,  but  I  have  in  mind  a  great  service  that 
you  may  render  me,  as  a  friend,  mind  you,  Re- 
contre.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  succeed  unless  you 
freeze  to  death  or  get  killed  by  the  Indians.  None 
but  a  brave  man  would  attempt  what  I  shall  mention. 
I  have  a  very  important  communication  to  forward 
to  the  office  at  St.  Louis.  It  must  be  there  before 
the  middle  of  March  or  the  Company  will  suffer 
heavy  losses.  If  you  can  get  this  there  at  the  time 
stated,  you  shall  be  advanced  considerably,  with  a 
raise  of  wages.  Now  how  would  you  like  being  my 
private  clerk?  ' 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  101 

"  I  stared  into  Latour's  eyes  and  saw  all  hell  deep 
down  in  them. 

1  Give  me  a  good  dog  to  carry  my  bedding,'  said 
I,  '  and  I  will  be  at  St.  Louis  by  the  middle  of 
March,'  and  then  I  thanked  him  extravagantly  for 
this  last  and  greatest  of  favours.  All  the  time  I 
hated  the  man  more  pitilessly  than  ever  before  be 
cause  of  his  shallowness  in  hoping  to  flatter  me  into 
getting  myself  frozen  to  death. 

"  I  started  the  next  day  with  1700  miles  of  frozen 
prairie  before  me.  I  felt  a  strange  joy  at  the  thought 
of  my  hardships.  Once  again  I  would  have  the  joy 
of  seeing  disappointment  in  the  eyes  of  my  enemy, 
and  my  soul  could  laugh  again.  I  say  I  was  glad  to 
go,  even  though  I  was  obliged  to  leave  Pelagic  be 
hind  at  a  time  when  the  post  was  ravaged  with  the 
smallpox. 

"  It  was  a  trip  to  make  one  love  hell  by  compari 
son.  Nothing  but  my  hate  sustained  me.  On  March 
roth  I  delivered  the  written  message  to  the  official 
at  St.  Louis.  He  read  it  wonderingly. 

"  '  What !  '  said  he ;  '  have  you  walked  from  Union 
to  deliver  this?9 

"  I  stated  that  I  had  and  he  shook  his  head, 
frowned  and  dismissed  me.  I  never  knew  what  was 
in  that  message.  I  surmise  that  it  was  nothing  of 
much  importance. 

"  When  the  first  boat  started  up  the  river  for  the 
North  I  went  with  it  and  arrived  at  Fort  Union  in 
late  June.  Latour  was  at  the  landing  when  the  boat 


102  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

pulled  in.  He  threw  his  arms  about  my  neck  and 
actually  kissed  me  upon  the  cheek.  He  then  and 
there  made  me  his  private  clerk  with  my  former 
salary  doubled.  He  treated  me  as  a  brother. 

"  But  I  saw  in  the  depth  of  his  eyes  the  soul-fret 
of  a  wounded  beast. 

''  When  we  reached  his  office  walking  arm  in  arm, 
he  gently  told  me  of  the  serious  sickness  of  Pelagic, 
and  how  he  had  looked  after  her  like  a  brother 
through  the  hard  winter. 

"  I  hurried  to  my  home.  I  found  Pelagic  deliri 
ous  with  the  fever  of  smallpox.  All  that  night  I  sat 
beside  her,  my  heart  aching,  for  I  felt  that  she  would 
die. 

"  And  for  the  time  I  forgot  my  hate  for  Latour, 
until,  in  her  feverish  tossing  about,  she  threw  her 
bare  arm  over  the  side  of  the  bed.  Then  I  saw  that 
which  made  me  shiver  with  a  desire  to  kill.  There 
was  a  scratch  on  the  arm,  and  the  flesh  about  it  was 
swollen  and  blue.  It  came  to  me  that  Latour  had 
caused  her  to  be  inoculated  that  she  might  die  before 
my  return,  and  thus  make  my  heart  sore  that  he 
might  see. 

"  I  grasped  the  dirk  and  ran  wildly  out  of  the 
house  in  search  of  Latour.  I  reached  his  door. 
Then  I  faltered.  It  was  not  fear  that  made  me 
falter.  It  was  that  I  knew  my  revenge  could  not  be 
completed  in  this  way.  I  wanted  to  see  him  suffer 
more  than  I  had  ever  suffered.  Also  I  wished  to 
come  away  with  clean  hands.  I  did  not  know  how 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  103 

it  could  be  done  then,  but  I  trusted  to  some  mysteri 
ous  power  that  had  seemed  to  be  with  me  all  through 
my  terrible  winter  tramp. 

"  I  stole  back  to  the  bedside  of  Pelagie.  She  died 
at  dawn. 

"  Latour  mourned  with  me.  He  wept  and  spoke 
touchingly  of  his  own  wife.  I  gritted  my  teeth  and 
strained  every  nerve  to  keep  from  choking  him. 

"  The  summer  passed.  Latour  was  so  kind  that 
I  often  found  it  an  effort  to  keep  alive  my  belief  in 
his  treachery.  And  at  other  times,  I  was  obliged  to 
leave  him  abruptly,  feeling  a  madness  in  my  blood 
for  striking  him  down,  trampling  him,  tearing  him 
with  my  teeth  and  nails. 

"  Oh,  all  the  great  actors  have  not  appeared  upon 
the  stage!  I  must  confess  that  Nature  and  Zephyr 
Recontre  killed  a  great  actor ! 

"  The  fall  came,  and  our  friendship  did  not  abate. 
I  began  to  fear  that  my  chance  would  never  come, 
and  I  would  be  obliged  to  kill  him  as  one  brute  kills 
another.  Many  nights  I  lay  awake  shaping  impossi 
ble  schemes  of  revenge  that  were  rejected  in  the 
sanity  of  the  morning. 

"  In  the  first  week  of  October  I  had  occasion  for 
a  great  joy.  Latour  called  me  to  his  office  and  stated 
that  certain  conditions  of  the  trade  which  had  been 
wholly  unforeseen,  made  it  necessary  that  he  should 
be  in  St.  Louis  before  the  winter  set  in.  Unfortu 
nately,  the  last  steamboat  had  left  Fort  Union  for  the 
South,  making  it  necessary  that  the  trip  be  made  in 


io4  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

a  mackinaw  boat.    Would  I,  his  dearest  friend,  con 
sent  to  accompany  him  on  the  trip? 

'  With  a  studied  reluctance  that  hid  my  insane  joy, 
I  consented.  Latour  left  a  clerk  in  charge  of  affairs, 
and  we  started.  We  made  very  slow  progress,  as 
we  depended  almost  entirely  upon  the  current,  hav 
ing  no  oars,  and  there  being  little  wind  to  fill  the 
square  sail  we  carried. 

'  This  was  as  I  wished  it  to  be.  I  kept  longing 
for  the  ice  to  come  down  and  shut  us  in.  Time  and 
again  I  managed  to  run  the  boat  aground  on  bars  in 
order  to  kill  time.  Latour  seemed  not  to  notice  this. 
In  fact,  he  was  unusually  pleasant  in  his  bearing 
toward  me. 

'*  We  had  a  small  hut  built  on  the  mackinaw,  fitted 
with  two  bunks,  and  a  small  box  stove  for  cooking. 
When  we  tied  up  to  the  shore  for  the  night  and 
turned  in,  I  was  often  obliged  to  choke  back  laughter 
at  the  comedy  that  we  played — a  grim  comedy.  Each 
of  us  would  at  once  feign  deep  slumber,  ever  now 
and  then  opening  our  eyes  to  see  how  the  other  slept. 
Once  our  eyes  chanced  to  meet  in  the  dim  candle 
light  of  the  room,  for  Latour  insisted  upon  the  can 
dle.  We  both  grinned  and  rolled  over. 

"Our  understanding  seemed  perfect;  and  yet, 
owing  to  the  devilish  refinement  of  our  mutual  hate, 
neither  really  feared  any  vulgar  act  of  violence  from 
the  other.  We  knew  that  the  thing  would  not  be 
done  in  that  way. 

"  We  had  made  about  five  hundred  miles  down 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  105 

stream  into  the  very  heart  of  the  wilderness,  when 
the  ice  began  running.  Within  twenty-four  hours 
after  that,  we  were  frozen  in.  A  heavy  snow  began 
falling  and  continued  for  a  week.  It  lay  three  feet 
deep  upon  the  level,  and  was  so  light  as  to  make  it 
impossible  to  take  the  trail. 

"  Latour  and  I  merrily  set  about  to  chop  wood, 
not  knowing  how  long  we  might  be  forced  to  live  in 
the  little  cabin  of  the  mackinaw. 

"  We  had  brought  only  about  half  enough  provi 
sions  for  the  trip,  having  depended  upon  hunting  for 
much  of  our  food,  as  there  was  a  great  deal  of  game 
in  those  days.  The  deep  snow  made  it  impossible 
to  get  much  game,  so  that  in  less  than  two  weeks  our 
little  supply  of  lyed  corn  was  almost  exhausted. 

"  One  morning  Latour  said  that  he  was  sick,  and 
remained  in  his  bunk.  At  first  I  looked  upon  this 
with  suspicion,  thinking  that  he  thus  sought  to  throw 
the  duties  of  seeking  game  wholly  upon  me,  who  had 
proved  myself  so  capable  and  willing.  But  the  next 
morning  I  knew  it  was  no  sham,  for  he  had  a  high 
fever,  and  was  delirious  at  times.  You  see,  he  had 
been  used  to  luxury,  and  his  feeble  constitution  had 
not  been  equal  to  the  thorough  soaking  we  got  while 
chopping  wood  in  the  deep  snow. 

"  Often  in  his  delirium  he  linked  my  name  with 
bitter  curses.  At  last  he  had  betrayed  his  hate,  and 
I  smiled,  knowing  that  he  would  lose  the  game  at 
last,  since  he  no  longer  had  the  cunning  to  continue  it. 

"Again  it  began  to  snow;  it  was  a  hard  winter. 


106  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

Much  as  I  might  have  wished  to  seek  game  for  my 
sick  enemy,  I  could  not  even  seek  it  for  myself. 
Nature  had  taken  a  hand  in  the  game;  I  began  to 
feel  her  master-touch  in  the  bitter  scheme  of  things. 
She  seemed  determined  to  starve  us  both;  but  I  knew 
that  I  could  last  longer  than  Latour  with  his  consti 
tution  weakened  by  too  much  easy  life. 

"  So  I  blessed  the  snow  as  it  deepened.  Latour 
would  die  before  my  eyes;  and  then  afterward  I  too 
would  die,  the  winner  of  the  game.  It  would  be  a 
most  sublime  revenge,  it  seemed  to  me;  for  I  think  I 
was  hardly  sane  when  I  was  near  Jules  Latour.  It 
would  be  like  Samson  crushing  his  enemies  and  him 
self  together.  No  one  could  blame  me,  should  our 
bodies  be  found.  I  would  have  had  my  revenge  and 
still  none  could  blame  me. 

"  There  was  a  small  quantity  of  lyed  corn  left. 
I  ate  sparingly  of  this,  carefully  saving  Latour's 
share  for  him  when  he  should  wish  to  eat. 

"One  morning  he  awoke  from  his  delirium;  he 
asked  for  food. 

"  *  I  have  saved  your  share  for  you,'  said  I.  *  I 
might  have  eaten  it,  for  I  think  we  shall  starve  to 
death  in  a  week  or  so.  The  snow  is  too  deep  and 
soft  for  hunting.  Still  I  have  divided  fair  with  you, 
remembering  your  great  kindness  to  Pelagic,  remem 
bering  your  great  kindness  in  allowing  me  to  distin 
guish  myself  among  the  Blackfeet,  remembering  your 
generosity  in  allowing  me  to  take  your  message  to 
St.  Louis.  Do  you  remember?  ' 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  107 

"  He  groaned,  and  his  eyes  became  cold  and  sav 
age,  like  a  starved  wolf's. 

'"I  gave  him  his  lyed  corn  and  he  ate.  His  de 
lirium  returned.  He  cursed  Recontre  bitterly.  He 
clenched  his  feverish,  white  hands  about  the  imagi 
nary  neck  of  Zephyr  Recontre;  and  I  smiled. 

"  In  two  days  more  all  the  lyed  corn  had  been 
eaten.  In  the  meanwhile  the  surface  of  the  snow  had 
hardened  with  the  intense  cold.  I  could  have  hunted, 
for  I  was  not  yet  too  weak,  and  there  was  a  gun  and 
plenty  of  ammunition.  But  I  did  not  go  hunting. 
I  saw  Latour  weakening  rapidly.  He  might  die  dur 
ing  my  absence,  and  I  would  thus  lose  the  sweetness 
of  my  revenge.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this  would  be 
like  selling  my  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

"  I  could  have  taken  the  gun  and  gone  south  over 
the  snow  to  Fort  Pierre,  several  hundred  miles  down 
the  river.  But  I  did  not  go.  Latour  had  not  died 
yet.  After  he  died,  if  I  could  still  walk,  I  might  go. 

"  All  day  I  sat  beside  the  little  box  stove,  gazing 
upon  Latour.  At  night  I  slept  lightly,  awakening 
often  to  see  how  fever  and  hunger  dealt  with  Latour. 
He  might  die  while  I  slept. 

"  One  day  in  December,  I  cannot  remember  just 
when,  for  I  myself  was  often  delirious  with  hunger, 
Latour  again  awakened  from  delirium. 

"'Food,  food!'  he  gasped.  '  For  God's  sake, 
Recontre,  don't  let  a  man  starve  like  this !  Let's 
make  it  up  between  us;  only  give  me  something  to 
eat!' 


io8  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  His  voice  was  thin  like  a  sick  woman's.  His 
face  was  the  face  of  a  damned  man. 

*  Make  what  up?'  I  said  sweetly.  My  voice 
was  also  thin.  I  struggled  continuously  with  a  terri 
ble  giddiness.  I  felt  as  one  in  a  nightmare.  I,  too, 
was  starving. 

"  Latour  stared  upon  me  with  tears  in  his  faded 
eyes,  and  groaned.  I,  too,  fetched  tears;  it  was  easy 
to  weep  in  my  weakened  condition. 

"'I  have  no  food,'  said  I;  '  neither  can  I  go  in 
search  of  any.  I  am  starving,  and  the  snow  is  deep. 
Would  I  not  go  if  I  could?  Would  I  not  go  for  you? 
Can  I  forget  Pelagic  and  the  Blackf eet  trip  ?  Can  I 
forget  the  winter  trip  to  St.  Louis?  ' 

"  Latour  fainted.  I  shouted  feebly  with  an  insane 
joy;  I  thought  he  had  died. 

"  In  a  few  moments  he  revived,  and  again  begged 
piteously  for  food.  I  wept,  and  said  there  was  none. 
Then  he  became  delirious  and  cursed  me  like  a  devil. 
I  never  heard  such  cursing  before  nor  since. 

"  And  the  strange  thing  about  it  all  was  that  I 
pitied  Latour.  But  my  hate  had  become  a  mania ;  I 
could  not  relent. 

41  What  passed  after  that  hour  I  cannot  remem 
ber  with  distinctness.  Dreams  were  real,  and  reality 
was  a  dream.  I  only  remember  in  a  vague  way,  as 
though  it  had  happened  in  a  nightmare,  that  Latour 
died  cursing  me;  that  I  sang  and  shouted;  that  I 
crawled  out  of  the  hut  on  my  hands  and  knees,  laugh 
ing  and  shouting,  and  that  I  saw  a  band  of  men 


THE    ART    OF    HATE  109 

coming  over  the  frozen  snow  from  the  direction  of 
Fort  Pierre.  I  remember  hearing  them  call  my  name 
as  with  the  voices  of  a  dream.  I  remember  that  I 
cried  out,  '  Latour  has  just  died !  '  And  then  I  re 
member  laughing  and  crying,  not  knowing  why  I 
did. 

"  I  remember  that  these  men  gave  me  food — warm 
food — and  that  after  a  long  sleep  I  awoke  and  saw  a 
Jesuit  missionary  kneeling  at  my  bedside. 

"  It  was  then  that  I  tasted  the  full  sweetness  of 
my  triumph.  The  priest  was  blessing  me!  He  spoke 
of  the  Christlike  kindness  of  Zephyr  Recontre,  who 
had  not  deserted  his  sick  master. 

"  I  did  not  see  Latour  again.  The  Jesuit's  party 
had  chopped  a  hole  in  the  ice  and  had  given  his  body 
to  the  river." 


VII 

THE   SINGER  OF  THE   ACHE 

The  Old  Omaha  Speaks 

NOW  this  is  the  story  of  one  who  walked 
not  with  his  people,  but  with  a  dream. 
To  you  I  tell  it,  O  White  Brother,  yet 
is  it  not  for  you,  unless  you  also  have  followed  the 
long  trail  of  hunger  and  thirst — the  trail  that  leads 
to  no  lodge  upon  the  high  places  or  the  low  places, 
by  flowing  streams  or  where  the  sand  wastes  lie. 

It  shall  be  as  the  talking  of  a  strange  tribe  to  you, 
unless  you  also  have  peered  down  the  endless  trail, 
with  eyes  that  ached  and  dried  up  as  dust,  and  felt 
your  pony  growing  leaner  and  shadow-thin  beneath 
you  as  you  rode,  until  at  last  you  sat  upon  a  quiet 
heap  of  bones  and  peered  and  peered  ahead. 

Moon-Walker  was  he  called — he  who  walked  for 
the  moon.  But  that  was  after  he  had  called  his  pony 
from  the  grazing  places  and  mounted  for  the  long 
ride.  Yet  was  there  a  time  when  he  ran  about  among 
the  lodges  laughing  very  merrily  with  many  boys 
and  girls,  who  played  with  hoop  and  spear,  made 
little  bloodless  wars  upon  unseen  peoples,  and  played 
in  little  ways  the  big,  sad  games  of  men.  And  then 

no 


THE   SINGER   OF  THE  ACHE       in 

he  was  called  by  many  names,  and  all  of  the  names, 
though  different,  meant  that  he  was  happy. 

But  once  his  mother  and  his  father  saw  how  that 
a  man  began  to  look  out  of  his  eyes,  began  to  hear 
a  man  talking  in  his  throat;  and  so  they  said:  "It 
is  the  time  for  him  to  dream." 

So  they  sent  him  at  nightfall  to  the  hill  of  dreams 
— as  is  the  custom  of  our  people. 

Wahoo!  the  bitter  hill  of  dreams!  Many  have 
I  seen  go  up  there  laughing,  but  always  they  came 
down  with  halting  feet  and  with  sadness  in  their 
faces.  And  among  these  many,  lo !  even  I  who  speak 
— therefore  should  my  words  be  heard. 

And  he  of  the  many  names  went  up  into  the  hill 
of  dreams  and  dreamed.  And  in  through  the  mists 
that  strange  winds  blow  over  the  hills  of  sleep  burst 
a  white  light,  as  though  the  moon  had  grown  so 
big  that  all  the  sky  was  filled  from  rim  to  rim,  leav 
ing  no  place  for  sun  and  stars.  And  upon  the  sur 
face  of  the  white  light  floated  a  face,  an  awful  face 
— whiter  than  the  light  upon  which  it  floated;  and  so 
beautiful  to  see  that  he  of  the  many  happy  names 
ached  through  all  his  limbs,  and  cried  out  and  woke. 
Then  leaping  to  his  feet,  he  gazed  about,  and  all  the 
stars  had  grown  so  small  that  he  looked  thrice  and 
hard  before  he  saw  them;  and  the  world  was 
shrunken. 

And  frightened  at  the  strangeness  of  all  things, 
he  fled  down  the  hillside  into  the  village.  His 
mother  and  his  father  he  wakened  with  bitter  crying. 


ii2  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  How  came  the  dream?"  they  whispered;  for 
upon  the  face  of  him  who  went  up  a  boy  they  saw 
that  which  only  many  years  should  bring;  and  in  his 
eyes  there  was  a  strange  light. 

"A  face!  a  face!"  he  whispered.  "I  saw  the 
face  of  the  Woman  of  the  Moon!  Whiter  than 
snow,  it  was,  and  over  it  a  pale  flame  went!  Oh, 
never  have  I  seen  so  fair  a  face ;  and  there  was  some 
thing  hidden  in  it  swift  as  lightning;  something  that 
would  be  thunder  if  it  spoke;  and  also  there  was 
something  kind  as  rain  that  falls  upon  a  place  of 
aching  heat.  Into  the  north  it  looked,  high  up  to 
where  the  lonesone  star  hangs  patient. 

"  And  there  was  a  dazzle  of  white  breasts  beneath, 
half-hidden  in  a  thin  blanket  of  mist.  And  on  her 
head,  big  drifts  of  yellow  hair;  not  hanging  loose  as 
does  your  hair,  O  mother,  but  heaped  like  clouds 
that  burn  above  the  sunset.  My  breast  aches  for 
something  I  cannot  name.  And  now  I  think  that  I 
can  never  play  again !  " 

And  there  was  a  shaking  of  heads  in  that 
lodge,  and  a  wondering,  for  this  was  not  good.  Not 
so  had  others,  big  in  deeds,  dreamed  upon  the  hill 
in  former  times.  Always  there  had  been  a  coming 
of  bird,  or  beast,  or  reptile,  wrapped  in  the  mystery 
of  strange  words;  or  there  had  been  the  cries  of 
fighting  men,  riding  upon  a  hissing  of  hot  breaths; 
or  there  had  been  a  stamping  of  ponies,  or  the  thin, 
mad  song  of  arrows. 

But  here   it  was  not   so,   and  the   mother   said: 


THE   SINGER   OF  THE  ACHE       113 

"  Many  times  the  false  dreams  come  at  first,  and 
then  at  last  the  true  one  comes.  May  it  not  be  so 
with  him?  " 

And  the  father  said :  "  It  may  be  so  with  him." 
So  once  again  up  the  hill  of  dreams  went  the  boy. 
And  because  of  the  words  of  his  father  and  mother, 
he  wept  and  smeared  his  face  with  dust;  his  muddy 
hands  he  lifted  to  the  stars.  And  he  raised  an  ear 
nest  voice :  "  O  Wakunda !  send  me  a  man's  dream, 
for  I  wish  to  be  a  big  man  in  my  village,  strong  to 
fight  and  hunt.  The  woman's  face  is  good  to  see, 
but  I  cannot  laugh  for  the  memory  of  it.  And  there 
is  an  aching  in  my  breast.  O  Wakunda!  send  me 
the  dream  of  a  man !  " 

And  he  slept.  And  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
when  shapeless  things  come  up  out  of  the  hills,  and 
beasts  and  birds  talk  together  with  the  tongues  of 
men,  his  dream  came  back. 

Even  as  before  the  moon-face  floated  in  a  lake  of 
cold  white  fire — a  lake  that  drowned  the  stars.  And 
as  he  reached  to  push  it  from  him,  lo !  like  a  white 
stem  growing  downward  from  a  flower,  a  body  grew 
beneath  it !  And  there  was  a  flashing  of  white  light 
ning,  and  the  Woman  of  the  Moon  sj:ood  before 
him. 

Then  was  there  a  burning  in  the  blood  of  the  boy, 
as  she  stooped  with  arms  held  wide;  and  he  was 
wrapped  about  as  with  a  white  fire,  through  which 
the  face  grew  down  with  lips  that  burned  his  lips 


ii4          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

as  they  touched,  and  sent  pale  lightnings  flashing 
through  him. 

And  as  the  dream  woman  turned  to  run  swiftly 
back  up  the  star-trails  he  who  dreamed  reached  out 
his  arms  and  clutched  at  the  garments  of  light  that 
he  might  hold  the  thing  that  fled,  for  dearer  than 
life  it  seemed  to  him  now. 

And  he  woke.  His  face  was  in  the  dust.  His 
clutching  hands  were  full  of  dust. 

Wahoo!  the  bitter  hill  of  dreams!  Have  you 
climbed  it,  O  White  Brother,  even  as  I? 

And  in  the  morning  he  told  the  dream  to  his 
father,  who  frowned;  to  his  mother — and  she  wept. 
And  they  said:  "  This  is  not  a  warrior's  dream,  nor 
is  it  the  dream  of  a  Holy  Man;  nor  yet  is  it  the 
vision  of  a  mighty  bison  hunter.  Some  strange  new 
trail  this  boy  shall  follow — a  cloudy,  cloudy  trail! 
Yet  let  him  go  a  third  time  to  the  hill — may  not  the 
true  dream  linger?" 

And  the  boy  went  up  again;  his  step  was  light; 
his  heart  sang  wildly  in  his  breast.  For  once  again 
he  wished  to  see  the  Woman  of  the  Moon. 

But  no  dream  came.  And  in  the  morning  the 
pinch  of  grief  was  upon  his  face  and  he  shook  his 
fists  at  the  laughing  Day.  Then  did  he  and  a  great 
Ache  walk  down  the  hill  together.  All  things  were 
little  and  nothing  good  to  see.  And  in  among  his 
people  he  went,  staring  with  eyes  that  burned  as  with 
a  fever,  and  lo!  he  was  a  stranger  walking  there! 
Only  the  Dream  walked  with  him. 


THE    SINGER    OF   THE   ACHE      115 

And  the  sunlight  burned  the  blue,  much-beaded 
tepee  of  the  sky,  and  left  it  black;  and  as  it  burned 
and  blackened,  burned  and  blackened,  he  who 
dreamed  the  strange  dream  found  no  pleasure  in 
the  ways  of  men.  Only  in  gazing  upon  the  round 
moon  did  he  find  pleasure.  And  when  even  this  was 
hidden  from  him  for  many  nights  and  days  he  went 
about  with  drooping  head,  and  an  ache  was  in  his 
eyes. 

And  in  these  days  he  made  wild  songs;  for  never 
do  the  happy  ones  make  songs — they  only  sing  them. 
Songs  that  none  had  heard  he  made.  Not  such  as 
toilers  make  to  shout  about  the  camp  fires  when  the 
meat  goes  round.  Yet  was  the  thick,  hot  dust  of 
weary  trails  blown  through  them,  and  cries  of  dying 
warriors,  and  shrieks  of  widowed  women,  and  whim 
pering  of  sick  zhinga  zhingas;  and  also  there  was  in 
them  the  pang  of  big  man-hearts,  the  ache  of  toiling 
women's  backs,  the  hunger,  the  thirst,  the  wish  to 
live,  the  fear  to  die ! 

So  the  people  said:  '*  Who  is  this  nu  zhinga  who 
sings  of  trails  he  never  followed,  of  battles  he  never 
fought?  No  father  is  he — and  yet  he  sings  as  one 
who  has  lost  a  son !  Of  the  pain  of  love  he  sings 
— yet  never  has  he  looked  upon  a  girl!  " 

And  it  was  the  way  of  the  boy  to  answer:  "  I  seek 
what  I  do  not  find,  and  so  I  sing!" 

And  the  nights  and  days  made  summers  and  win 
ters,  and  thus  it  was  with  the  Singer  of  the  Ache. 
He  grew  tall  even  to  the  height  of  a  man — yet  was 


n6  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

he  no  man.  For  little  did  he  care  to  hunt,  and  the 
love  of  battles  was  not  his.  Nor  his  the  laughter  of 
the  feast  fires.  Nor  did  he  look  upon  the  face  of 
any  maiden  with  soft  eyes. 

And  the  father  and  mother,  who  felt  the  first 
frosts  upon  their  heads,  said:  "Our  son  is  now  a 
man;  should  he  not  build  a  lodge  and  fill  it  with  a 
woman?  Should  we  not  hear  the  laughter  of  zhinga 
zhingas  once  again  before  we  take  the  black  trail 
together?  " 

And  because  his  father  had  many  ponies,  many 
maidens  were  brought  before  him  for  his  choosing. 
But  he  looked  coldly  upon  them  and  he  said:  "  The 
stars  are  my  sisters  and  my  brothers,  and  the  Moon 
is  my  wife,  giving  me  songs  for  children.  Soon  shall 
there  be  a  long  trail  for  me." 

Thereat  a  cry  went  up  against  him  and  more  and 
more  he  walked  a  stranger.  Only  the  Dream  walked 
with  him;  and  he  sang  the  songs  that  ache. 

Harsh  words  the  father  spoke:  u  Does  the  tribe 
need  songs?  Can  hungry  people  eat  a  silly  shout, 
or  will  enemies  be  conquered  with  a  singing?  " 

But  the  mother  wept  and  said:  "Say  not  so  of 
him.  Do  not  his  songs  bring  tears,  so  strange  and 
sweet  they  are  at  times?  Does  a  man  quarrel  with 
the  vessel  from  which  he  drinks  sweet  waters,  even 
if  it  be  broken  and  useless  for  the  cooking?  " 

And  the  father  frowned  and  said:  "Give  me 
many  laughers,  and  I  will  conquer  all  the  enemies 
and  fill  all  the  kettles  of  the  feasts!  'Let  the  weepers 


THE    SINGER    OF   THE   ACHE      117 

and  makers  of  tears  drag  wood  with  the  women. 
Always  have  I  been  a  fighter  of  battles  and  a  killer 
of  bison.  This  is  not  my  son  !  " 

And  it  happened  one  night  that  the  Singer  stood 
alone  in  the  midst  of  his  people,  when  the  round 
Moon  raised  a  shining  forehead  out  of  the  dark, 
and  grew  big  and  flooded  all  the  hills  with  white 
light.  And  the  Singer  raised  his  arms  to  it  and  sang 
as  one  who  loves  might  sing  to  a  maiden  coming 
forth  flashing  with  many  beads  from  her  tepee. 

And  the  people  laughed  and  a  mutter  ran  about: 
"To  whom  does  the  fool  sing  thus?  " 

Soft,  shining  eyes  he  turned  upon  them,  and  he 
said:  "Even  to  the  Woman  of  the  Moon!  See 
where  she  looks  into  the  North  with  white  face 
raised  to  where  the  lonesome  star  hangs  patient !  " 

And  the  people  said:  "  This  is  the  talk  of  a  fool 
— no  woman  do  we  see !  " 

And  then  the  Singer  sang  a  new  song  through 
which  these  words  ran  often :  "  Only  he  sees  who 
can — only  he  sees  who  can!  " 

So  now  he  walked  a  fool  among  his  people,  sing 
ing  the  songs  that  ache. 

Wahoo!  bitter  it  is  to  be  a  fool!  And  yet,  O 
White  Brother,  only  they  who  have  been  fools  are 
wise  at  last ! 

And  it  happened  one  summer  that  the  village  was 
builded  in  the  flat  lands  by  the  Big  Smoky  Water. 
And  there  came  snoring  up  the  stream  a  monda 
geeung,  the  magic  fire-boat  of  the  palefaces.  Up  to 


n8  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

the  shore  it  swam,  and  they  who  guided  it  tied  it 
to  the  sand,  for  its  fires  were  hungry  and  there  was 
much  wood  in  our  lands. 

•  And  all  the  villagers  gathered  there  to  see  the 
magic  swimmer  of  the  palefaces;  and  among  them 
came  the  lonesome  singing  fool. 

And  it  happened  that  a  woman  of  the  palefaces 
came  forth  and  stood  high  up,  and  looked  upon  us, 
smiling.  White  as  a  snowfall  in  the  late  spring  was 
her  face,  and  her  hair  was  like  the  sun  upon  a  cloud. 
And  we  all  stared  wide-mouthed  upon  her,  for  never 
before  had  her  kind  come  into  the  prairies. 

Also  stared  the  fool.  Even  long  after  all  the 
people  had  gone  he  stared;  even  until  the  smoky 
breath  of  the  fire-boat  writhed  like  a  big  black  ser 
pent  out  of  the  place  where  the  stream  runs  out  of 
the  sky. 

And  then  he  laid  his  head  upon  his  knees  and 
wept;  for  a  longing,  bigger  than  the  wish  to  live, 
or  the  fear  to  die,  had  come  upon  him. 

Very  early  in  the  morning,  when  the  sleep  of  all 
things  is  deepest,  he  arose  from  sleepless  blankets. 
He  called  his  pony  from  the  grazing  places,  and 
he  mounted  for  a  long  ride.  Into  the  North  he  rode, 
and  as  he  rode  he  talked  to  himself  and  to  the  silence 
that  clung  about  him:  "  It  was  the  Woman  of  the 
Moon!  Into  the  North  she  went,  even  unto  the 
quiet  place  where  the  lonesome  star  hangs  patient. 
There  shall  I  ride — there  shall  I  ride !  For  there  do 
all  my  songs  take  wings  and  fly;  and  there  at  last 


THE    SINGER    OF   THE   ACHE      119 

their  meanings  await  me.  There  shall  I  ride — there 
shall  I  ride!" 

And  the  fires  of  the  day  burned  out  the  stars  and 
died;  downward  and  inward  rushed  the  black,  black 
ashes  of  the  night.  And  still  he  rode  toward  the 
North. 

And  like  the  flashing  of  a  midnight  torch  through 
a  hole  in  a  tepee  flashed  the  days  and  passed.  And 
still  he  rode. 

Through  many  villages  of  strange  peoples  did  he 
ride,  and  everywhere  strange  tongues  and  strange 
eyes  questioned  him;  and  he  answered:  "  Into  the 
North  I  ride  to  find  the  Woman  of  the  Moon !  " 

And  the  people  pitied  him,  because  he  seemed  as 
one  whose  head  was  filled  with  ghostly  things;  and 
they  fed  him. 

Further  and  further  into  the  waste  places  he 
pushed,  making  the  empty  spaces  sweet  and  sad  with 
his  singing;  and  the  winter  came.  Thin  and  lean  he 
grew,  and  his  pony  grew  lean  and  thin. 

And  the  white,  mad  spirits  of  the  snow  beat  about 
the  two.  And  now  and  then  snow  ghosts  writhed  up 
out  of  the  ground  and  twisted  and  twirled  and 
moaned,  until  they  took  on  the  shape  of  her  he 
sought.  And  ever  he  followed  them;  and  ever  they 
fell  back  into  the  ground.  And  the  world  was  bitter 
cold. 

Wahoo!  the  snow  ghosts  that  we  follow,  O  White 
Brother ! 

And  the  time  came  when  the  pony  was  no  longer 


120  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

a  pony,  but  a  quiet  heap  of  bones;  and  upon  this 
sat  the  man  who  walked  for  the  moon.  Then  did 
the  strength  go  out  of  him,  and  he  turned  his  sharp 
face  to  the  South.  He  sang  no  more  for  many 
days,  for  his  body  was  as  a  lodge  in  which  a  fair 
woman  lies  dead  with  no  mourners  around.  And  at 
last  he  wakened  in  a  strange  lodge  in  a  village  ,of 
strangers. 

And  it  happened  when  the  green  things  pushed 
upward  into  the  sun  again  that  a  young  man  who 
seemed  very  old,  for  he  was  bent,  his  face  was  thin, 
his  eyes  were  very  big,  hobbled  back  into  the  village 
of  his  people. 

And  he  went  to  a  lodge  which  was  empty,  for  the 
father  with  his  frowning  and  the  mother  with  her 
weeping  had  taken  the  long  trail,  upon  which  comes 
no  moon  and  never  the  sun  rises — but  the  stars  are 
there. 

Many  days  he  lay  within  the  lonesome  lodge. 
And  it  happened  that  a  maiden,  one  whom  he  had 
pushed  aside  in  other  days,  came  into  the  lodge  with 
meat  and  water. 

So  at  last  he  said:  "  I  have  sought  and  have  not 
found;  therefore  will  I  be  as  other  men.  I  will  fill 
this  lodge  with  a  woman — and  this  is  she.  Hence 
forth  I  shall  forget  the  dream  that  led  me;  I  shall 
be  a  hunter  of  bison  and  a  killer  of  enemies;  for  after 
all,  what  else?" 


THE    SINGER    OF   THE   ACHE      121 

And  this  he  did. 

So  all  the  village  buzzed  with  kindly  words. 
"  The  fool  has  come  back  wise !  "  they  said. 

And  as  the  seasons  passed  there  grew  the  laughter 
of  zhinga  zhingas  in  the  lodge  of  the  man  who 
walked  no  more  for  the  moon. 

But  a  sadness  was  upon  his  face.  And  after  a 
while  the  dream  came  back  and  brought  the  singing. 
Less  and  less  he  looked  upon  the  woman  and  the 
children.  Less  and  less  he  sought  the  bison,  until  at 
last  Hunger  came  into  that  lodge  and  sat  beside  the 
fire. 

Then  again  the  old  cry  of  the  people  grew  up: 
"  The  fool  still  lives !  He  sings  while  his  lodge  is 
empty.  His  woman  has  become  a  stranger  to  him, 
and  his  children  are  as  though  a  stranger  had 
fathered  them!  Shall  the  fool  eat  and  only  sing?" 

And  a  snarling  cry  grew  up:  "Cast  out  the 
fool!" 

And  it  was  done. 

So  out  of  the  village  stumbled  the  singing  fool, 
and  his  head  was  bloody  with  the  stones  the  people 
threw.  Very  old  he  seemed,  though  his  years  were 
not  many.  Into  the  North  he  went,  and  men  saw 
his  face  no  more. 

But  lo !  many  seasons  passed  and  yet  he  lived  and 
was  among  all  peoples!  For  often  on  hot  dusty 
trails  weary  men  sat  down  to  sing  his  songs;  and 
women,  weeping  over  fallen  braves,  found  his  songs 


122  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

upon  their  lips.  And  when  the  hunger  came  his 
strange  wild  cries  went  among  the  people.  And  all 
were  comforted! 

And  this,  O  White  Brother,  is  the  story  of  the 
fool  who  walked  for  the  moon ! 


VIII 
THE   WHITE   WAKUNDA 

HE  was  the  son  of  Sky- Walker's  oldest  squaw 
and  he  was  born  in  the  time  when  the  lone 
goose  flies  (February) .  It  was  a  very  bitter 
winter,  so  that  many  years  after  the  old  men  spoke  of 
it  as  "  the  winter  of  the  big  snows." 

Sky- Walker,  his  father,  was  a  seer  of  great  visions, 
and  he  had  a  power  that  was  more  than  the  power  of 
strong  arms.  He  was  a  thunder  man,  and  he  could 
make  rain. 

And  when  Sky-Walker's  oldest  squaw  bore  a  son 
there  was  much  wonder  in  the  village,  for  she  was 
far  past  her  summer  and  the  frost  had  already  fallen 
on  her  hair.  Also,  she  was  lean  and  wrinkled. 

So  the  old  men  and  women  came  to  the  lodge  of 
Sky-Walker  and  looked  upon  the  newborn  child. 
They  looked  and  they  shook  their  heads,  for  the 
child  was  not  as  a  child  should  be.  He  was  no 
bigger  than  a  baby  coyote  littered  in  a  terrible  winter 
after  a  summer  of  famine.  He  was  not  fat. 

"  He  can  never  be  a  waschusclia  [brave] ,"  said 
one  old  man;  "I  have  seen  many  zhinga  zhingas 
[babies]  who  grew  strong,  but  they  were  not  like 
this  one.  He  will  carry  wood  and  water." 

And  Sky-Walker's  old  squaw  arose  from  the  blan- 

123 


124  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

kets  where  she  lay  with  the  child,  and  sat  up,  fixing 
eyes  of  bitterness  upon  those  who  came  to  pity,  and 
she  said: 

"  He  will  be  more  than  a  killer  of  men  or  a  hunter 
of  bison.  Wakunda  sent  him  to  me,  for  I  am  old 
and  past  my  time.  See,  I  am  lean  and  wrinkled,  and 
it  is  already  winter  in  my  hair.  Also  I  had  visions. 
Let  my  man  tell  you ;  he  knows." 

And  Sky- Walker,  sitting  beside  the  old  mother, 
gave  words  to  the  old  men  and  women,  who  knew 
his  little  words  to  be  bigger  than  the  big  words  of 
most  men. 

'*  The  woman  speaks  true.  She  is  past  her  time, 
and  she  has  seen  things  that  made  me  wonder,  and  I 
am  wise.  She  had  visions,  but  in  them  there  was  no 
singing  of  arrows,  nor  drumming  of  pony  hoofs,  nor 
dancing  of  braves  in  war  paint,  nor  cries  of  con 
quered  enemies;  neither  was  there  any  thunder  or 
lightning. 

1  There  was  only  the  soft  speaking  of  quiet  things 
— the  sound  of  the  growing  of  green  things  under 
the  sun.  And  before  the  last  moon  died,  once  she 
wakened  me  from  my  sleeping,  for  she  had  had  a 
dream.  She  saw  her  son  walking  a  mighty  man 
among  the  tribes,  yet  he  had  no  weapons. 

"And  a  great  light,  greater  than  sunlight,  was 
about  him.  This  she  told  me.  Many  times  have  we 
seen  together  the  drifting  of  the  snows,  and  always 
her  words  were  true  words. 


THE    WHITE   WAKUNDA  125 

"  And  see,  it  is  a  boy,  even  as  she  dreamed.  Also 
he  has  come  in  the  time  when  the  lone  goose  flies.  I 
see  much  in  this.  He  shall  be  alone,  but  high  in 
loneliness,  and  he  shall  go  far,  far!  Look  where 
he  gazes  upon  you  with  man-eyes!  Are  they  the 
eyes  of  a  zhinga  zhinga?" 

The  old  folks  looked  and  pitied  no  more,  for  the 
eyes  were  not  as  other  eyes.  They  had  a  strange 
light,  making  the  old  ones  wonder. 

So  the  word  passed  around  and  around  the  circle 
of  lodges  that  Sky-Walker's  oldest  squaw  had  a  son 
who  was  not  a  common  zhinga  zhinga.  And  as  the 
talk  grew,  the  name  of  the  child  grew  with  it.  So 
he  was  called  Wa-choo-bay,  "  the  Holy  One." 

And  as  Wa-choo-bay  grew,  so  grew  the  wonder 
of  the  people,  for  he  never  cried,  and  he  talked 
soon.  Also  from  the  first  he  appeared  as  one  over 
whom  many  winters  had  passed. 

When  he  reached  that  age  when  he  should  have 
played  with  the  other  boys,  he  did  not  play,  but  was 
much  alone  upon  the  prairie  without  the  village. 
He  never  took  part  in  the  game  of  Pawnee  zhay-day, 
the  game  of  spear  and  hoop,  which  made  the  other 
boys  laugh  and  shout. 

One  evening  in  his  fifth  year,  his  father,  Sky- 
Walker,  said  to  him: 

"  It  is  the  time  for  the  coming  of  the  dreams  to 
Wa-choo-bay.  Let  him  go  afar  into  a  lonesome 
place  without  food  and  lift  his  hands  and  his  voice 


126  THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

to  Wakunda.     Four  sleeps  let  him  stay  in  the  lone 
some  place,  that  his  dream  may  come." 

So  his  mother  smeared  his  forehead  with  mud  and' 
muttered  to  the  spirits: 

"  Thus  shall  you  know  Wa-choo-bay,  who  goes 
forth  to  have  his  first  dream.  Send  him  a  good 
dream." 

And  Wa-choo-bay  went  forth  into  a  lonesome 
place  without  food. 

And  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day,  when  the 
squaws  were  making  fires,  he  returned,  and  as  he 
entered  the  village  and  went  to  the  lodge  of  his 
father  the  squaws  gazed  upon  his  face,  seeing  that 
which  was  very  strange. 

They  wakened  the  sleepers  in  the  lodges,  say 
ing: 

"  Wa-choo-bay  is  come  back  with  a  strange  medi 
cine-look  upon  his  face !  He  has  had  a  great  dream ; 
come  and  see." 

And  the  village  awoke  and  crowded  about  the 
lodge  of  Sky-Walker,  who  came  forth  and  said: 

u  Go  away!  Something  great  has  happened  to 
my  nu-zhinga  [boy],  and  he  is  about  to  tell  me  his 
dream." 

And  the  people  went  away,  awed  and  silent. 

In  the  stillness  of  his  lodge  Sky-Walker  gazed 
upon  the  boy's  face  and  said: 

"  What  has  Wa-choo-bay  seen?  " 

And  Wa-choo-bay  said : 

"I  went  far  into   a   lonesome  place;  there  was 


THE   WHITE   WAKUNDA  127 

nothing  but  the  crows  and  the  prairie  and  the  sky. 
I  lifted  my  hands  and  my  voice  as  you  told  me.  I 
said  the  words  you  told  me.  Then  I  slept,  and  when 
I  awoke  this  is  what  I  remembered ;  the  rest  was  like 
big  things  moving  in  the  mist. 

"  I  was  on  the  shore  of  the  Ne  Shoda  [Missouri], 
and  a  little  canoe  came  up  to  me,  and  I  got  in,  for  a 
voice  told  me  to  get  in.  Then  the  canoe  swam  out 
into  the  water  and  went  fast.  I  went  toward  the 
place  of  summer.  I  rode  far,  many  sleeps,  and  then 
as  I  was  about  to  come  to  the  end  of  my  long  riding, 
I  awoke.  Four  times  I  saw  this,  and  then  I  came 
here.  What  does  it  mean?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Sky- Walker.  "  I  must 
think  hard,  and  then  maybe  I  will  know." 

And  Sky-Walker  shut  himself  in  his  lodge  and 
thought  hard  for  four  sleeps.  And  when  the  fifth 
morning  came  he  said  to  Wa-choo-bay: 

"  I  have  thought  hard,  and  now  I  know  that  it  is 
the  big  things  moving  in  the  mist  that  you  must  see. 
Go  forth  and  dream  again  in  the  lonesome  place." 

And  so  Wa-choo-bay  went  forth  with  the  mud  on 
his  brow,  crying  to  the  spirits  that  he  might  see  the 
big  things  that  moved  in  the  mist.  He  slept  and 
dreamed.  Again  he  was  in  the  canoe  and  he  rode 
far. 

Then  at  last  the  river  tossed  him  upon  the  sand, 
and  lo!  there  was  a  big,  big  village  before  him,  and 
the  lodges  of  it  were  strange  and  very  big.  Then 
the  big  village  wavered  like  the  picture  of  something 


128  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

in  a  pool  that  is  disturbed,  and  vanished.  And  the 
sun  was  on  the  hills. 

So  Wa-choo-bay  went  back  to  his  father  and  told 
him  what  he  had  seen,  and  Sky-Walker  said : 

"  This  is  very  strange.  After  many  sunlights  of 
flowing,  the  big  muddy  water  comes  to  a  place  where 
a  big  new  tribe  has  its  lodges.  And  the  faces  of 
the  tribe  are  white.  Something  it  is  about  this  tribe 
that  you  have  dreamed.  And  I  am  afraid,  for 
Wakunda  meant  that  all  faces  should  be  of  the 
colour  of  the  earth.  Let  the  sunlight  pass,  and  then 
we  shall  know  the  meaning  of  this  dream." 

The  days  grew  into  years,  and  Wa-choo-bay  sat 
at  the  feet  of  the  old  men,  learning  much. 

He  learned  the  names  of  the  thunder  spirits  that 
are  never  spoken  aloud.  He  learned  the  songs  that 
the  thunder  spirits  love.  He  learned  to  call  the  rain. 
He  learned  the  manner  of  the  rite  of  Wa-zhin-a-dee, 
by  which  one  may  kill  a  man  without  the  use  of 
weapons.  And  when  he  had  grown  to  be  a  tall 
youth,  he  was  taken  into  the  sacred  lodge  where  the 
holy  relics  are  kept.  For  it  seemed  plain  that 
Wakunda  meant  him  for  a  great  medicine-man. 

But  it  was  in  the  summer  when  he  had  reached  the 
height  of  a  man  that  Wa-choo-bay  did  that  which 
marked  him  for  the  lonesome  way. 

It  happened  that  the  summer  had  been  one  of 
peace  and  plenty;  so  the  Omahas  called  in  the  Paw 
nees  and  the  Poncas  for  a  powwow,  which  is  a  great 
feast  and  a  talking. 


THE   WHITE  WAKUNDA  129 

And  the  two  neighbouring  tribes  had  taken  the 
peace  trail  and  come  to  the  Omaha  village.  Then 
there  was  much  painting  in  the  colours  of  peace,  and 
the  village  that  the  three  tribes  made  was  more  than 
one  could  see  with  a  look. 

In  a  great  circle  it  lay  in  the  flat  lands  of  Ne 
Shoda,  with  an  opening  to  the  place  of  morning. 
And  in  the  centre  there  was  built  a  large  semicircu 
lar  shade  of  willow  boughs,  in  which  the  braves 
would  dance  and  sing,  giving  away  presents  of 
ponies,  furs,  hides,  and  trinkets  that  please  the  eye. 

One  day  there  was  a  great  dancing  and  a  great 
giving  away.  Many  ponies  had  been  led  into  the 
sunny  centre  of  the  semicircular  shade,  and  given 
away  to  those  whom  the  criers  called. 

And  Wa-choo-bay  was  there,  standing  tall  and 
thin,  alone  amid  all  the  revellers,  for  more  and  more 
as  the  sunlights  passed  he  thought  deep  thoughts. 

Among  the  Poncas  sat  a  young  squaw  who  was 
good  to  see,  for  she  was  slender  and  taller  than  a 
common  brave.  And  upon  her  forehead  was  the 
tattooed  sunspot  that  marked  her  for  the  daughter 
of  the  owner  of  many  ponies.  She  was  called  Umba 
(Sunlight),  and  she  was  the  best  to  see  of  all  the 
daughters  of  the  assembled  tribes. 

To-day  she  sat  amid  the  revelling  and  saw  none  of 
it.  She  saw  only  the  tall  youth,  standing  alone  like  a 
beech  tree  among  a  cluster  of  scrub  oaks.  And  her 
eyes  grew  soft  as  she  looked. 

And  when  the  centre  of  the  place  of  shade  had 


1 30  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

cleared,  she  arose  and  walked  into  the  centre.  There 
she  stood,  a  stately  figure,  with  soft  eyes  fixed  upon 
Wa-choo-bay. 

At  length  she  raised  her  arms  toward  him  and 
sang  a  low,  droning  song,  like  that  a  mother  sings 
to  her  child  in  the  evening  when  the  fires  burn 
blue. 

And  all  the  people  listened,  breathless,  for  she  was 
fair,  and  the  song,  which  was  a  song  of  love,  was 
sung  to  Wa-choo-bay  alone,  standing  thin  and  tall 
and  deep  in  thought. 

Then  when  her  song  had  ceased,  she  took  off  her 
blanket  of  dyed  buckskin,  and,  holding  it  at  arm's 
length  toward  Wa-choo-bay,  she  said: 

"  I  give  my  blanket  to  the  tall  and  lonesome  one. 
Let  him  come  and  take  it,  and  I  shall  follow  him  on 
all  his  trails,  even  if  they  be  hard  trails  that  lead  to 
death!" 

And  Wa-choo-bay  raised  his  eyes  and  gazed  with 
a  sad  look  upon  the  Ponca  woman.  His  voice  came 
strong,  but  soft: 

"I  cannot  take  the  blanket;  neither  shall  I  ever 
take  a  squaw.  For  I  am  a  dreamer  of  dreams.  I 
shall  never  hear  zhinga  zhingas  laughing  about  my 
lodge.  I  am  going  on  a  long  trail,  for  I  follow  a 
dream.  Yet  have  I  never  seen  a  woman  so  good  to 
see.  There  is  an  ache  in  my  breast  as  I  speak.  Let 
this  woman  follow  one  who  kills  enemies  and  hunts 
bison.  I  dream  dreams,  and  a  long  trail  is  before 
me,  and  its  end  is  in  the  mist." 


THE   WHITE  WAKUNDA  131 

Then  Umba  moaned  and  walked  out  of  the  circle 
with  her  head  bowed. 

And  Sky- Walker,  seeing  this,  said: 

"  It  is  even  as  I  said.  He  was  born  in  the  time 
of  the  lone  goose.  He  shall  be  alone,  but  high  in 
loneliness;  and  he  shall  go  far,  far." 

And  the  time  came  when  the  tribes  took  the  home 
ward  trail.  Then  one  day  Wa-choo-bay  raised  his 
voice  among  the  people  and  said: 

"  My  time  is  come  to  go.  I  take  a  long,  lonesome 
trail,  for  a  dream  dreamed  many  times  is  lead 
ing  me." 

Then  he  went  down  to  the  great  river  where  a 
canoe  lay,  and  the  people  followed. 

They  said  no  word  as  he  pushed  the  canoe  into 
the  current  and  shot  downstream,  for  a  white  light 
was  upon  his  face,  and  the  dream  rode  with  him. 

Then  Sky-Walker  and  his  old  squaw  climbed  a 
high  bluff  and  watched  the  speck  that  was  Wa-choo- 
bay  fading  in  the  mist  of  distance. 

1  This  is  the  last  I  shall  see,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"  for  I  am  old  and  the  winter  is  in  my  hair.  But 
great  things  will  happen  when  I  am  gone." 

And  under  the  shade  of  a  lean  hand  raised  brow- 
ward  she  saw  the  black  speck  vanish  in  the  blue  of 
distance. 

Summers  and  winters  passed.  Sky-Walker  and 
his  old  squaw  died;  the  name  of  Wa-choo-bay  be 
came  a  dim  and  mystic  thing.  Yet  often  about  the 


132  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

fires  of  winter,  when  the  wind  moaned  about  the 
lodges,  the  old  men  talked  of  the  going  away  of  the 
Holy  One,  making  the  eyes  of  the  youths  grow  big 
with  wonder. 

And  often  the  old  men  and  women  gazed  from 
the  high  bluff  down  the  dim  stretches  of  the  muddy 
river,  wondering  when  Wa-choo-bay  would  come 
back,  for  it  was  said  that  great  things  would  happen 
at  his  coming. 

It  happened  many  years  after  the  going  away  of 
Wa-choo-bay  that  the  Omaha  tribe  had  its  village 
in  the  valley  on  a  creek  near  the  big  muddy  water. 

It  was  the  time  when  the  sunflowers  made  sun 
light  in  the  valleys  and  when  the  women  were  busy 
pulling  weeds  from  the  gardens. 

One  evening  a  band  of  youths,  who  had  been  play 
ing  on  the  bluffs  overlooking  the  far  reaches  of  the 
river,  came  with  breathless  speed  and  terror-stricken 
faces  into  the  village. 

"  Monda  geeung  [devil  boat]  !  "  they  cried, 
pointing  to  the  river.  "  A  big  canoe  breathing  out 
smoke  and  fire  is  swimming  up  Ne  Shoda." 

The  whole  village  scrambled  up  the  bluffs,  and 
what  they  saw  was  not  forgotten  for  many  moons. 
It  was  a  boat,  but  it  was  not  as  other  boats.  It 
breathed  smoke  and  fire.  It  grunted  and  puffed  like 
a  swimmer  in  a  heavy  current. 

It  had  a  great  arm  that  reached  before  it.  Also 
it  had  two  noses,  where  the  smoke  and  fire  came 
out.  It  had  eyes  along  its  side  that  sparkled  in  the 


THE   WHITE   WAKUNDA  133 

evening  sunlight.  There  was  none  to  paddle  it,  yet 
it  moved  steadily  against  the  current. 

The  people  stood  bunched  closely  together  and 
shivering  with  fear  as  the  monster  approached.  With 
a  chugging  and  a  swishing  and  a  coughing,  it  swam, 
turning  its  head  towards  the  bluff  where  the  people 
watched  and  reaching  out  its  one  big  arm  toward 
them. 

"It  sees  us!  It  wishes  to  eat  us!"  cried  the 
people,  and  like  a  herd  of  frightened  bison  they  ran 
and  tumbled  down  the  bluff.  They  hid  in  their 
lodges  with  their  weapons  grasped  in  their  hands. 
They  made  no  noise,  lest  the  monster  should  find 
them. 

But  the  devil-swimmer  did  not  come.  The  people 
listened.  At  length  the  sound  of  the  mighty  breath 
ing  stopped,  then  it  began  again  and  grew  dimmer 
and  dimmer  until  it  died  away  far  up  the  stream. 

And  when  the  people  came  forth  cautiously  from 
their  hiding,  a  man,  tall,  thin,  with  a  strange  look 
upon  his  bronze  face,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
village. 

Awed  by  the  mien  of  the  stranger,  the  people 
stared  in  silence.  The  sun  had  fallen  and  the 
shadows  of  the  evening  were  about  him.  Also  he 
wore  garments  that  were  not  as  Wakunda  meant 
garments  should  be. 

The  stranger  cast  a  long  gaze  about  him,  then 
raised  his  arms  and  said  in  a  voice  that  was  strong 
but  soft: 


i34  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  I  breathe  peace  upon  my  people." 

The  words  were  Omaha  words,  yet  they  sounded 
strange. 

Again  the  voice  was  raised  in  the  shadows  and 
passed  like  a  wind  among  the  people,  shaking  them. 

"  I  am  Wa-choo-bay — he  who  followed  the  long 
dream-trail — and  I  am  come  back  with  a  great 
wisdom  for  the  tribes." 

But  the  people  only  trembled,  and  the  old  men 
whispered : 

"  It  is  not  Wa-choo-bay,  but  his  spirit.  Well  is 
the  face  remembered,  but  the  words  are  not  man- 
words." 

Then  the  stranger  passed  about  the  circle  of  the 
wondering  people,  touching  them  as  he  went,  for  he 
had  heard  the  whispering  of  the  old  men.  And  the 
people  shrank  from  him. 

"  I  am  Wa-choo-bay,"  cried  the  stranger  again. 
"  I  am  the  son  of  Sky-Walker.  I  am  a  man,  and 
not  a  spirit.  Give  me  meat,  for  I  am  hungry." 

And  they  gave  him  meat,  and  he  ate.  Then  only 
did  the  people  know  him  for  a  man. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Wa-choo-bay  told 
many  strange  things  of  the  white-faced  race  whose 
camp  fires  were  kindled  ever  nearer  and  nearer  the 
people  of  the  prairie.  Also  he  said  words  that  were 
not  common  words.  They  were  medicine-words. 

And  before  many  moons  had  grown  and  died 
these  things  travelled  far  and  wide  across  the  prairie, 
until  in  many  tribes  the  wonder  grew.  Around  many 


THE    WHITE   WAKUNDA  135 

camp  fires  was  told  the  tale  of  how  an  Omaha  had 
come  back  after  being  many  years  in  the  lands  that 
lay  toward  the  place  of  summer;  also  of  the  devil- 
boat  in  which  he  came,  and  of  the  new  wisdom  he 
was  talking. 

So  there  was  a  great  moving  of  the  tribes  toward 
the  village  of  the  Omahas.  The  Poncas,  the  Paw 
nees,  the  Osages,  the  Missouris,  the  Otoes — all 
heard  the  strange  tale  and  took  the  trail  that  led  to 
the  village  lying  in  the  flat  lands  of  Ne  Shoda. 

And  in  the  time  when  the  prairie  was  brown  there 
was  a  great  gathering  of  the  prairie  peoples  in  the 
flat  lands. 

The  cluster  of  villages  that  they  made  was  so 
broad  that  a  strong  man  walked  from  morning  until 
the  sun  was  high  before  he  reached  the  other  side. 
Then  one  morning  when  the  tribes  had  gathered 
Wa-choo-bay  went  to  the  top  of  a  bluff  that  stood 
bleak  against  the  sky,  and  the  people  followed,  sitting 
below  him  upon  the  hillside,  for  they  wished  to  hear 
the  strange  words  that  would  be  spoken  that  day. 

Wa-choo-bay,  standing  thin  and  tall  against  the 
sky,  raised  his  arms  and  his  face  to  the  heavens, 
breathing  strange  words  above  the  people,  upon 
whom  a  great  hush  fell. 

And  it  happened  that  in  the  hush  a  tamed  wolf 
among  the  people  near  the  summit  of  the  bluff  raised 
its  snout  and  mourned  into  the  sudden  stillness. 

And  its  master  beat  it  for  the  noise  it  made  until 
it  cried  with  pain. 


136  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  Wa-choo-bay 
walked  in  among  the  gazers  and  laid  caressing  hands 
upon  the  wolf,  calling  it  by  gentle  names  until  it 
licked  his  hands. 

And  when  he  returned  to  the  summit,  the  wolf  fol 
lowed,  licking  the  feet  of  Wa-choo-bay  as  it  went. 

Then  Wa-choo-bay  raised  his  voice,  and  it  went 
even  to  the  farthest  listener,  though  it  seemed  a  soft 
voice. 

"  This  is  the  first  I  shall  teach  you :  be  kind  to 
everything  that  lives." 

And  the  people  wondered  much.  This  was  a  new 
teaching. 

In  the  hush  of  awe  that  fell,  Wa-choo-bay  spoke 
again,  while  the  wolf  sat  by  him,  licking  his  feet. 
He  told  of  his  being  in  the  lands  that  lay  toward  the 
summer;  of  the  great  white-faced  race  that  lived 
there;  of  the  great  villages  that  they  built,  having 
lodges  bigger  than  half  a  prairie  village. 

He  told  of  the  strength  of  this  great  white-faced 
race;  of  how  they  were  moving  steadily  toward  the 
people  of  the  prairie.  And  then  he  told  in  quaint 
phrases  the  story  of  Christ  and  His  teachings  of 
kindness. 

"  These  things  I  learned  from  the  great  medicine 
men  of  the  white-faced  race,  and  they  are  wise  men," 
said  Wa-choo-bay.  "  It  is  this  that  has  made  their 
people  great.  So  I  have  come  to  say:  Have 
no  more  fighting  on  the  prairie;  be  one  great  tribe, 
even  like  the  white-faces;  build  great  villages  like 


THE    WHITE   WAKUNDA  137 

them,  for  I  have  learned  that  only  they  who  build 
great  villages  and  do  not  wander  shall  live.  The 
others  must  flee  like  the  bison  when  hunters  follow. 

"  And  I  will  teach  you  the  wise  words  of  the  great 
white  Wakunda's  Son,  who  died  because  he  loved 
all  the  tribes.  It  is  a  teaching  of  peace — a  teaching 
that  we  be  kind  to  our  enemies." 

Then  there  arose  one  among  the  Osages,  an  old 
man,  and  he  said: 

"  These  are  big  words.  Let  Wa-choo-bay  call 
down  rain  upon  us  if  this  big  white  God  loves  him." 

Then  arose  one  among  the  Pawnees,  and  he  cried 
in  broken  Omaha: 

"  I  say  with  my  Osage  brother,  let  Wa-choo-bay 
do  some  medicine-deed,  that  we  may  know  him  for 
a  holy  one." 

And  still  another  among  the  Poncas  arose  and 
said : 

"  If  this  be  true  that  we  have  heard,  how  Wa- 
choo-bay  came  back  in  a  holy  boat,  and  that  his  big 
white  Wakunda  is  so  strong  and  loves  Wa-choo-bay, 
let  him  send  the  rain,  and  we  will  fall  upon  our 
faces." 

Then  the  whole  concourse  of  tribes  sent  up  a 
shout : 

"  Give  us  some  medicine-deed!  " 

And  when  the  shout  had  died,  Wa-choo-bay  smiled 
a  smile  of  pity  and  said: 

"  I  am  not  the  big  white  Wakunda ;  I  am  only 
one  who  talks  for  Him  and  loves  Him,  for  I  have 


138  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

seen  a  new  light.  I  can  do  no  medicine-deeds. 
Neither  can  anyone  among  you  do  medicine-deeds. 
It  is  all  a  dreaming — and  we  must  awaken." 

Then  there  was  a  great  crying,  an  angry  storm  of 
voices  atout  the  hill.  It  beat  upon  the  bleak  summit 
where  Wa-choo-bay  stood  with  face  and  hands  raised 
to  the  heavens,  breathing  a  prayer  of  the  white-faces. 

There  was  a  breaking  up  of  the  concourse  and  a 
walking  away.  But  one  among  the  people  hurled  a 
stone  with  sure  aim  and  struck  Wa-choo-bay  upon 
the  side  of  the  face.  He  staggered,  and  the  blood 
came.  But  he  showed  no  anger. 

Turning  the  other  side  of  his  face,  he  said : 

"  Let  him  who  threw  the  stone  throw  again  and 
strike  me  here.  Even  so  the  great  white  Wakunda's 
Son  suffered." 

But  the  second  stone  was  not  cast,  and  Wa-choo- 
bay  was  left  alone  with  the  wolf  upon  the  summit, 
kneeling  and  muttering  words  of  kindness. 

The  day  passed,  and  still  he  knelt  upon  the  sum 
mit.  But  when  the  dark  had  fallen,  he  became 
aware  of  someone  near  him.  He  raised  his  head 
and  saw  in  the  starlight  a  woman  lying  upon  her 
face  before  him,  and  she  was  moaning. 

Wa-choo-bay  lifted  her  and  looked  into  her  face. 
It  was  a  face  that  he  had  known  of  old,  only  the 
winters  had  changed  it. 

"  I  am  Umba,  the  Ponca  woman,"  she  said. 
"  Many  summers  ago  I  spoke  to  you.  Do  you  re 
member?  " 


THE    WHITE   WAKUNDA  139 

And  Wa-choo-bay  said:    "  I  have  not  forgotten." 

Then  said  Umba,  the  Ponca  woman:   "  Even  now 

it  is  the  same  as  then.    I  have  come  to  take  the  hard 

trail  with  you,  even  the  trail  that  leads  to  death,  for 

in  all  these  winters  and  summers  I  have  taken  no 


man." 


And  she  wiped  the  blood  from  his  face  with  her 
blanket  of  buckskin. 

There  was  an  aching  in  the  breast  of  Wa-choo-bay 
as  he  said  these  words,  which  the  Ponca  woman 
could  not  understand,  though  her  tongue  was  one 
with  his: 

"  From  now  through  all  the  summers  and  winters 
that  follow,  your  name  shall  be  Mary." 

"  Have  you  heard  my  words?"  he  said  after  a 
long  silence. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  I  believe. 
I  alone  among  all  the  villagers  believe." 

"  Then  shall  you  follow  me  on  my  lonesome  trail. 
I  see  not  its  end,  for  it  is  in  the  mist." 

The  days  when  the  prairie  was  brown  passed,  and 
the  snows  came.  And  there  was  one  who  followed  a 
bitter  winter  trail. 

From  village  to  village  he  went,  speaking  words 
of  kindness  and  doing  good  deeds.  But  everywhere 
he  was  driven  from  the  villages.  And  there  were 
two  who  followed  him — two  faithful  disciples — the 
woman,  whose  name  was  changed  to  Mary,  and  the 
wolf. 


140  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

And  ever  the  tall  thin  man,  whose  face  was 
pinched  with  hunger  and  the  cold,  gave  kind  words 
to  those  who  offered  blows. 

It  happened  in  the  time  of  Hunga-Mubli — the 
time  when  the  snows  drift  against  the  north  sides  of 
the  lodges,  that  a  rumour  ran  across  the  prairie — a 
rumour  that  a  strange  sickness  had  come  to  the  vil 
lage  of  the  Poncas.  It  was  the  sickness  called  Gcha- 
tunga,  the  sickness  of  the  big,  red  sores. 

Then  Wa-choo-bay  and  his  two  disciples  turned 
weary  feet  toward  the  stricken  village  of  the  Poncas, 
It  was  a  hard  trail,  with  little  food  and  much  cold. 

And  when  the  three  entered  the  stricken  village 
there  was  a  rejoicing  among  the  Poncas,  for  they 
said: 

"  Might  it  not  be  that  this  one  whom  we  have 
spurned  is  stronger  than  we  thought?  " 

But  Wa-choo-bay  sang  no  medicine-songs;  he  per 
formed  no  mystic  rites.  With  tender  hands  he 
nursed  the  sick.  Also  he  knelt  beside  them  and  said 
soft  words  that  were  not  the  words  of  the  prairie. 

And  it  happened  that  the  invisible  arrows  of  the 
Terror  fell  thicker  and  thicker  among  the  Poncas. 
The  sickness  spread,  and  the  village  was  filled  with 
the  delirious  shrieks  of  the  dying. 

So  a  great,  angry  wail  went  up  against  Wa-choo- 
bay. 

"  The  sickness  grows  greater,  not  less,"  said  those 
who  were  still  strong.  "  This  Wa-choo-bay's  words 
are  not  true  words.  There  is  a  black  spirit  in  him." 


THE    WHITE   WAKUNDA  141 

So  it  happened  that  arms  that  were  still  strong 
seized  Wa-choo-bay  and  bound  him  with  thongs  of 
buckskin.  Then  he  was  led  afar  from  the  village  to 
the  bleak,  cold  summit  of  a  hill. 

There  they  planted  a  post  and  bound  Wa-choo- 
bay  to  it. 

And  the  woman,  whose  name  was  changed  to 
Mary,  begged  for  him,  and  the  wolf,  with  its  four 
feet  huddled  together  in  the  snow,  mourned  with 
an  upward  thrusting  of  the  snout. 

But  Wa-choo-bay  said: 

"  Do  not  wail  for  me.  This  is  the  place  where  my 
trail  ends.  This  is  what  was  in  the  mist.  Let  these 
whom  I  love  do  as  they  will  do." 

And  when  they  had  bound  him  to  the  post  they 
whipped  him  with  elkhorn  whips. 

"Where  is  your  white  Wakunda?"  they  cried, 
and  it  was  a  hate  cry. 

"  Here  beside  us  stands  the  white  Wakunda  and 
His  Son!  "  said  Wa-choo-bay;  and  his  brow  was  wet 
with  the  sweat  of  agony.  But  the  whippers  did  not 
see,  and  the  whips  fell  harder. 

And  after  some  time  Wa-choo-bay  raised  his  head 
weakly  to  the  darkening  heavens,  for  the  sun  had 
fallen,  and  moaned  soft  words  that  were  not  prairie 
words. 

Then  his  head  fell  forward  upon  his  breast. 

The  whips  fell  no  more.    The  whippers  departed. 

The  sky  was  like  a  sheet  of  frosty  metal  and  the 
stars  were  like  broken  ice. 


142          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

Against  the  sky  hung  the  thin  figure  of  Wa-choo- 
bay  lashed  to  the  post,  and  beneath  him  in  the 
shadow  huddled  two  who  sent  trembling  cries  of 
sorrow  into  the  empty  spaces  of  the  snow — a  woman 
and  a  wolf. 


IX 

THE  TRIUMPH   OF   SEHA 

WHEN  Seha  had  grown  to  be  a  tall  youth, 
he  said  to  the  old  men:    u  Now  I  am 
almost  a  man;  what  shall  I  do?"     For 
being  a  youth,  he  dreamed  of  great  things.    And  the 
old  men  answered:    "  That  Wakunda  knows;  there 
fore,  take  yourself  to  a  high  hill ;  there  fast  and  pray 
until  sleep  comes,  and  with  it  a  vision." 

So  Seha  arose  and  laid  aside  his  garments,  and 
naked,  went  out  on  the  prairie.  When  he  had 
gone  far,  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  lonely  hill,  bare 
of  grass  and  strewn  with  flakes  of  stone  that  made 
its  summit  white  like  the  head  of  a  man  who  has  seen 
many  winters. 

Then  he  knelt  upon  the  flinty  summit,  and  raising 
his  palms  to  the  heavens,  he  cried:  "O  Wakunda, 
here  needy  stands  Seha !  "  Four  times  he  uttered 
the  cry,  yet  there  was  no  sound  save  that  of  the  crow 
overhead,  and  the  wind  in  the  short  grass  of  the  hill 
side. 

Then  he  fell  into  an  agony  of  weeping,  and  wet 
ting  his  palms  with  his  tears,  he  rubbed  them  in  the 
white  dust  and  smeared  his  face  with  mud.  Then  he 
cast  his  wet  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and  again  raised  his 
hands  in  supplication. 

143 


144          THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

"  O  Wakunda,  Seha  is  a  young  man ;  he  would 
do  great  things  like  the  old  men ;  send  him  a  vision !  " 

The  night  came  down  and  still  he  held  his  eyes 
upon  the  darkening  heavens,  crying  for  a  vision. 
But  only  the  coyote  answered  him.  The  stars  looked 
out  of  the  east  and  steadily  climbed  upward,  gazing 
upon  his  tearful  face.  But  when  the  grey  of  age 
began  to  grow  upon  the  forehead  of  the  Night,  he 
grew  so  weary  that  he  fell  forward  upon  his  face 
and  slept. 

And  lo !  the  vision  came ! 

It  seemed  that  the  skies  were  black  and  fierce  as 
the  face  of  a  brave  in  anger.  The  lightning  glared; 
and  the  thunder  shouted  like  a  warrior  in  the  front 
of  the  battle !  Then  the  cloud  split,  and  through  it 
rushed  a  mighty  eagle  with  the  lightning  playing  on 
its  wings;  its  cry  was  like  the  shriek  of  a  dying  foe 
and  its  eyes  were  bright  with  the  vision  that  sees  far. 
Its  wings  hovered  over  Seha,  and  it  spoke : 

"  Seha  shall  be  a  seer  of  things  far  off.  His 
thought  shall  be  quick  as  the  lightning,  and  his  voice 
shall  be  as  thunder  in  the  ears  of  men!  " 

Seha  awoke,  and  he  was  shivering  with  the  dews 
of  morning.  Then  he  arose  and  walked  back  toward 
his  village,  slowly,  for  his  thoughts  were  great. 
Four  days  he  went  about  the  village,  speaking  to  no 
one;  and  the  people  whispered:  "  Seha  has  had  a 
vision;  do  you  not  see  that  his  eyes  are  big  with  a 
strange  light?  " 

One  night  after  the  four  days  had  passed,  Seha 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   SEHA          145 

arose  from  his  blankets  and,  creeping  stealthily  out 
of  his  tepee,  he  went  to  the  lodge  of  Ebahamba,  who 
was  a  great  medicine-man,  for  Seha  wished  to  tell 
his  vision  into  a  wise  ear. 

Pulling  back  the  buffalo  robe  that  hung  across  the 
entrance  he  saw  the  great  man  sleeping  in  the  moon 
light  that  fell  through  the  opening  at  the  top  of  the 
tepee.  Entering,  he  touched  the  shoulder  of  the 
sleeper,  who  awoke  with  a  start,  and,  sitting  up, 
stared  at  the  young  intruder.  Then  Ebahamba 
being  thoroughly  awakened,  spoke : 

"Seha  has  come  to  tell  his  vision;  I  knew  he 
would  come;  speak." 

"  You  are  a  great  man,"  began  Seha,  "  and  your 
eyes  are  like  the  sun's  eyes  to  see  into  the  shadow. 
Hear  me  and  teach  me." 

Then  he  told  of  his  vision  on  the  lonely  hill. 

As  Ebahamba  listened  to  the  wonderful  thing  that 
had  befallen  the  youth,  his  heart  grew  cold  with 
envy;  for  certainly  great  things  were  in  store  for 
Seha,  and  might  it  not  come  to  pass  that  the  youth 
should  grow  even  greater  in  power  than  Ebahamba 
himself  ? 

So,  when  the  youth  had  ceased,  breathless  with 
the  wonder  of  the  thing  he  told,  the  old  man  said 
coldly:  "  Wakunda  will  teach  Seha;  let  him  go 
learn  of  the  wind  and  the  growing  things!  " 

Then  the  youth  arose  and  left  the  lodge.  But  the 
big  medicine-man  slept  no  more  that  night,  for  jeal 
ousy  is  sleepless. 


146  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

At  that  time  it  happened  that  the  winds  were  hot 
from  the  southwest,  and  the  maize  grew  yellow  as 
the  sun  that  smote  it,  and  the  rainless  air  curled  its 
blades.  And  the  old  man  Ebahamba  cried  to  Wa- 
kunda  for  rain;  but  the  skies  only  glared  back  for 
answer. 

Then  a  great  moan  went  up  before  the  lodge  of 
the  big  medicine-man,  Ebahamba.  u  Ebahamba 
speaks  with  the  spirits;  let  him  pray  to  the  thunder 
spirits  that  we  may  have  food  for  our  squaws  and 
our  children !  " 

And  Ebahamba  shut  himself  in  his  tepee  four 
days,  fasting,  crying  to  the  thunder  spirits,  and  per 
forming  strange  rites.  But  every  morning  the  sun 
arose  glaring  like  the  eye  of  a  man  who  dies  of  fever, 
and  the  hot  wind  sweltered  up  from  the  southwest, 
moaning  hoarsely  like  one  who  moans  with  thirst; 
and  the  maize  heard  the  moan  and  wilted. 

Then  when  the  people  grew  clamorous  before  the 
lodge  of  Ebahamba,  he  came  forth  and  said:  "  The 
thunder  spirits  are  sleeping;  they  are  weary  and 
drowsy  with  the  heat."  And  the  hooting  of  his 
people  drove  him  back  into  his  lodge. 

Then  Seha  raised  his  voice  above  the  despairing 
murmur  of  the  village,  saying:  "Seha  is  a  young 
man,  yet  the  thunder  spirits  will  hear  him,  be  they 
ever  so  drowsy,  for  Seha  has  had  a  vision.  Seha  will 
call  the  rain." 

The  murmur  of  the  people  ceased,  for  so  strange 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   SEHA          147 

a  light  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  youth  that  they  be 
lieved. 

"  Let  Seha  give  us  rain,"  they  cried,  "  and  he  shall 
be  a  great  man  among  his  people !  " 

Then  Seha  strode  out  of  the  village  and  disap 
peared  in  the  hills.  His  heart  was  loud  as  he  walked, 
for  would  he  not  be  a  great  man  among  his  people? 
He  believed  in  his  power  with  that  belief  which  is 
the  power.  All  day  he  walked,  and  when  the  red 
sun  glared  across  the  western  hills  like  an  eye  blood 
shot  with  pain,  he  came  to  a  clump  of  cottonwoods 
that  sang  upon  the  summit  of  a  bluff. 

Now  the  thunder  spirits  love  the  cottonwoods,  for 
they  rise  sternly  from  the  earth,  reaching  their  long 
arms  into  the  clouds,  and  they  cry  back  at  the  storm 
with  a  loud  voice.  Where  the  cottonwood  sings, 
there  the  thunder  spirits  sleep,  and  the  thunder 
birds,  the  eagle  and  the  hawk,  watch  with  keen 
eyes. 

Under  the  trees  Seha  stood,  and  raising  his  hands 
and  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  he  cried:  "  Hear  Seha ! 
For  is  he  not  a  thunder  man?  Did  he  not  dream  the 
thunder  man's  dream?  Then  I  command  you,  send 
the  big  clouds  boiling  before  the  wind;  send  the 
rains,  that  my  people  may  have  food  for  their  chil 
dren.  Then  I  will  be  a  great  man  among  my 
people !  " 

The  trees  only  tossed  their  branches  above  him, 
while  they  sang  softly  in  the  wind. 


148  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  O  Thunder  Spirits!  "  he  cried  again.  "  You  are 
not  asleep!  I  hear  you  talking  together  in  the  tree 
tops.  Listen  to  me,  for  I  am  a  thunder  man !  " 

Then  a  dead  calm  grew.  The  cottonwoods  were 
still.  Suddenly  they  groaned  with  a  cool  gust  from 
the  east.  The  groan  was  like  a  waking  man's  groan 
when  he  arises,  stretching  and  yawning,  from  his 
blankets. 

Then  Seha  lay  down  to  sleep;  for  were  not  the 
thunder  spirits  awake? 

When  the  night  was  late,  Seha  was  awakened  by 
the  howl  of  the  thunder.  He  saw  the  quick  light 
ning  pierce  the  boiling  darkness  in  the  east.  Then 
the  rain  drops  danced  upon  the  dry  hills  with  a  sound 
like  the  unintelligible  patter  of  many  voices  that  are 
glad. 

Seha  was  glad,  and  he  answered  the  shout  of  the 
thunder.  His  people  in  the  village  were  glad,  and 
their  tongues  were  noisy  with  the  name  of  Seha. 
The  maize  was  glad  and  it  looked  up  to  the  kind 
sky,  tossing  its  arms  in  exultation. 

When  Seha  returned  to  the  village,  he  was  the 
centre  of  a  joyful  cry;  he  had  become  a  great  man 
among  his  people.  And  when  they  asked  from 
whence  he  had  such  great  powers,  he  said:  "I 
caught  it  from  the  blowing  wind;  I  heard  it  in  the 
growing  of  the  maize." 

But  there  was  one  who  did  not  greet  the  mysteri 
ous  youth.  Ebahamba  shut  himself  in  his  tepee, 
for  had  he  not  failed  to  awaken  the  thunder  spirits 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   SEHA          149 

when  a  youth  had  succeeded?  Ebahamba  sat  sul 
lenly  in  his  tepee,  thinking  great  and  fierce  thoughts ; 
and  after  many  days  of  fasting,  his  magic  came  back 
to  him.  Then  he  summoned  to  his  lodge  one  by  one, 
the  men  of  his  band,  and  he  said  to  each :  "  Behold ! 
Seha  speaks  with  evil  spirits.  May  he  not  destroy 
his  people?  Then  let  us  perform  the  rite  of  Waz- 
hinadee  against  him  that  he  may  be  forsaken  by  man 
and  beast  and  so  die !  " 

The  men  of  his  band  believed  Ebahamba,  for  his 
magic  was  very  great  now,  and  he  forced  them  to 
believe.  So  each  man  went  to  his  tepee,  shut  himself 
in,  feasted  and  thought  sternly  against  Seha.  For 
this  is  the  manner  of  the  rite  of  Wazhinadee. 

Then  after  his  enemies  had  thought  strongly  for 
many  days  against  him,  Seha  was  seized  with  a 
strange  weakness.  His  eyes  lost  their  brightness, 
and  he  could  not  see  far  as  before.  All  through  the 
days  and  the  nights  he  went  about  the  village,  crying 
for  his  lost  power;  and  the  people  said:  "  The  coy 
otes  are  barking  in  the  hills."  They  could  not  see 
him  for  the  mist  that  the  terrible  rite  had  cast  about 
him. 

Then  Seha  wandered  out  on  the  prairie,  wailing 
as  ever  for  his  lost  power.  And  after  many  days, 
he  laid  himself  down  by  a  stream  to  die.  But  he  did 
not  die.  He  slept;  and  the  vision  came  again.  When 
he  awoke,  he  was  strong  again  and  his  eyes  could  see 
far  as  before. 

Then   he   said:      "I  will   cleanse  myself   in  the 


150          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

stream  and  go  back  to  my  people,  for  I  am  strong 
again." 

But  lo !  as  he  leaned  over  the  clear  stream,  he  be 
held  the  reflected  image  of  an  eagle  far  above  him. 
Now  a  medicine  man  can  change  himself  at  will  into 
anything  that  walks  or  crawls  or  flies  or  is  still;  and 
as  Seha  watched  the  eagle,  he  knew  that  it  was 
Ebahamba ! 

So  gliding  into  the  stream,  he  quickly  changed 
himself  into  a  great  fish  floundering  temptingly  upon 
the  surface.  The  eagle,  which  was  Ebahamba,  being 
hungry,  swooped  down  upon  the  fish  with  wide  beak 
and  open  talons. 

In  a  mpment,  Seha  changed  himself  into  a  huge 
boulder,  against  which  the  swooping  bird  dashed 
furiously,  crushing  its  beak  and  talons.  Then  it 
arose,  and  with  bloody  wings,  fluttered  across  the 
prairie. 

Seha  stepped  out  of  his  rock  and  laughed  a  loud, 
long  laugh,  and  the  eagle,  which  was  Ebahamba, 
heard  and  knew. 

So  Seha  returned  to  his  village  and  was  a  great 
man  among  his  people.  But  Ebahamba  hid  himself 
in  his  tepee;  and  a  rumour  ran  that  his  arms  were 
broken  and  his  face  crushed. 

And  there  was  much  wonder  in  the  village! 


X 

THE    END   OF   THE    DREAM 

THE  old  woman  Gunthai  had  nothing  but  a 
past  over  which  she  brooded  and  a  son 
upon  whom  she  doted.  Had  she  been  able 
to  write  the  latter  in  the  letters  of  that  tongue  which 
came  to  the  prairie  many  moons  after  her  death, 
breaking  with  syllables  of  magic  the  spell  of  the 
centuries,  she  would  have  written  it  with  a  "  u  " ; 
for  her  son  was  as  the  day  to  her;  his  coming  was 
the  morning  and  his  going  was  the  sunset.  When 
he  laughed,  there  was  summer  in  the  wretched  little 
tepee;  when  he  cried,  the  snows  drifted  about  the 
mother-heart 

Winter  and  summer  the  old  woman  sat  in  her 
lodge,  her  back  bent  with  the  burdens  of  many  sea 
sons  and  her  face  seamed  with  many  memories;  yet 
stern  and  expressionless  as  of  one  who  has  followed 
a  long  trail  and  cannot  see  its  end  though  the  sun 
be  falling. 

All  day  she  would  sit  in  her  lodge,  weaving  bas 
kets  of  willow,  which  she  exchanged  with  her  tribes 
men  for  meat  and  robes;  for  the  father  of  her  child 
was  dead.  Her  little  boy,  whom  she  tenderly  called 
Nu  Zhinga  (Little  Man),  would  lie  long  hours 


152  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

before  her  with  his  chin  resting  upon  his  little  brown 
hands,  watching  the  fingers  of  his  mother  weave  the 
pliant  twigs  into  form  with  marvellous  skill,  as  it 
seemed  to  him;  and  often  when  the  hours  crept 
lamely,  he  would  sing  to  her  a  monotonous  song  like 
the  wind's,  timing  the  irregular  air  with  the  beating 
of  his  toes  upon  the  floor. 

And  when  the  little  singer  would  cease,  the  old 
woman  Gunthai  often  forgot  the  unwoven  basket 
with  gazing  into  his  big  black  eyes,  for  in  them  her 
hope  could  read  great  deeds  that  were  to  be  done 
after  many  unborn  moons  had  waned. 

Then  she  would  tell  him  tales  of  his  father;  tales 
that  were  loud  with  the  snarl  of  war  drums,  the 
twang  of  bow  thongs,  the  shriek  of  arrows,  the  beat 
of  hoofs !  But  there  was  no  responsive  glitter  in  the 
eyes  of  the  boy;  his  heart  was  not  the  warrior's,  and 
the  old  mother  seeing  this,  sighed  and  fell  to  work 
with  nervous  haste. 

And  the  days  of  sun  and  snow  wove  themselves 
into  years,  until  Nu  Zhinga  had  reached  that  time 
when  boyhood  begins  to  deepen  into  manhood;  and 
yet  as  the  mother  looked  upon  her  son,  she  found 
him  scarcely  taller  than  a  weak  man's  bow. 

His  legs  were  short  and  bowed,  his  hips  narrow, 
and  upon  shoulders  of  abnormal  breadth  sat  his 
monstrous,  shaggy  head.  It  was  as  if  he  were  the 
visible  body  of  a  black  spirit's  joke,  save  for  his 
lustrous  eyes,  that  were  like  two  stars  that  burn  big 
in  the  air  of  evening  through  a  film  of  mist. 


THE    END    OF  THE    DREAM       153 

And  thus  it  was  that  when  Nu  Zhinga  passed 
through  the  village,  those  who  were  still  foolish 
with  youth  jeered  at  the  lad,  calling  his  name  in  con 
tempt;  but  the  old  men  and  women  who  had  grown 
wise,  only  shook  their  heads  and  pitied  Gunthai  in 
silence. 

But  the  boy  would  take  no  notice  of  his  tormen 
tors,  walking  on  sullen  and  silent.  He  lived  in  a 
little  world  of  his  own,  which  was  isolated  from  the 
great  world  by  the  unkindness  of  his  people,  like  a 
range  of  frozen  hills;  and  in  this  small  world  there 
were  but  three  dwellers:  Gunthai,  a  tame  grey  wolf, 
and  one  other.  That  other  was  a  despised  little  crip 
ple  and  her  name  was  Tabea  (Frog). 

These  three,  and 'about  them  the  chromatic  glory 
of  dreams  like  a  sunrise  that  lingers — this  was  the 
world  of  Nu  Zhinga.  All  day  amid  the  quiet  of 
the  summer  hills  Nu  Zhinga  and  Tabea  played  to 
gether;  he  telling  of  the  great  indefinite  things  that 
he  would  do  in  that  big  mysterious  sometime  when 
the  days  would  be  pregnant  with  wonders!  For  in 
his  soul  the  pulse  of  uncertain  but  lofty  resolve 
bounded,  and  as  he  peered  into  the  future,  lo !  it  was 
vast,  yet  dim  with  misty  possibilities  like  a  broad 
stretch  of  prairie  expanding  under  the  new  moon! 
And  she,  with  all  of  her  crooked  little  body  attentive, 
listened  and  believed  even  more  than  she  heard; 
which  is  the  way  of  those  who  love. 

And  then  these  two,  after  the  manner  of  children, 
would  play  at  life,  building  a  tepee  with  willows 


154  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

from  a  convenient  creek;  and  Tabea  would  groan 
as  she  bore  the  heavy  burdens,  thus  showing  how  she 
would  toil  for  him  and  suffer.  Then  when  the  tepee 
was  built,  she  would  go  about  droning  a  song,  with 
her  back  bent  as  with  the  weight  of  an  infant,  thus 
showing  how  she  would  carry  the  child  of  Nu 
Zhinga  in  that  big  and  sunlit  sometime. 

One  day  when  the  last  white  footstep  of  the  win 
ter  had  vanished  from  the  coldest  valley,  the  old 
woman  Gunthai  laid  aside  a  finished  basket  and 
called  her  boy  to  her  side. 

"  It  is  the  time,"  she  said;  "  the  time  is  ripe  with 
summers.  Nu  Zhinga  must  eat  no  meat  for  four 
days;  then  he  must  go  to  the  hill  where  the  visions 
come,  that  he  may  know  what  is  to  be  for  him  in 
the  light  of  the  unborn  moons. " 

So  Nu  Zhinga  ate  no  meat  for  four  days,  and 
when  the  fourth  evening  came,  as  the  fires  roared 
upward  among  the  circled  lodges,  he  passed  through 
the  village  and  took  his  way  to  the  high  hill  of 
dreams.  It  was  the  time  when  the  valleys  are  loud 
with  the  song  of  frogs  and  when  the  Earth  begins  to 
learn  anew  the  pleasant  lesson  of  the  Sun. 

When  he  had  stopped,  breathless  with  toiling  up 
the  long  incline,  for  he  was  weak  with  hunger,  he 
turned  and  looked  back  upon  the  jumbled  village 
and  saw,  indistinctly  through  the  mist  of  the  even 
ing,  his  mother  standing  before  the  door  of  her 
lodge,  straining  her  gaze  that  she  might  see  her  boy 
for  the  last  time,  climbing  to  the  height  where  the 


THE    END   OF  THE   DREAM       155 

dream  awaited,  that  should  send  him  back  a  man 
with  a  future  big  in  deeds. 

Then  Nu  Zhinga  climbed  on  to  the  summit  of  the 
hill  and  watched  the  west  pass  from  brilliant  colours 
into  dun,  and  the  darkness  come  with  the  stars.  In 
the  light  of  a  thin  moon  the  far  hills  whitened.  The 
big  stars  glowed  kindly  like  the  camp  fires  of  a 
friendly  people.  The  night  wind  talked  to  itself  in 
the  gulches;  and  attentive  to  these,  Nu  Zhinga  for 
got  the  reason  of  his  coming,  and  lulled  by  the  many 
pleasant  sounds,  fell  asleep  and  was  awakened  by 
the  pale  damp  Dawn. 

Then  he  ran  down  the  hill,  and  as  he  passed 
through  the  village,  the  old  women,  some  busy  about 
the  steaming  kettles,  others  bent  beneath  the  loads  of 
fuel,  shook  their  heads  and  said:  "  Gunthai's  boy 
has  had  no  vision ;  not  so  do  they  return  who  dream 
great  dreams." 

In  the  doorway  of  her  lodge  Gunthai  stood  await 
ing  the  approach  of  her  son.  Her  body  that  was 
wont  to  be  bent  like  a  bow  upon  which  a  heavy  hand 
is  laid  in  anger,  was  erect  and  quivering  as  is  the 
bow  when  the  arrow  has  sped  like  a  purpose.  Upon 
her  leathery,  wrinkled  face  dwelt  the  glimmer  of  an 
inner  illumination.  Only  the  flesh  was  old,  the  light 
was  young;  for  Hope  is  a  youth. 

As  the  lad  approached,  the  tenseness  of  expecta 
tion  held  the  old  woman's  tongue  and  her  question 
came  from  her  eyes.  "What  has  Nu  Zhinga 
dreamed?  " 


156  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

"  I  saw  the  stars  that  were  like  the  eyes  of  a 
friend,"  said  the  boy,  "  and  I  heard  the  wind  as  it 
sang  to  itself  in  the  gulches.  I  slept  and  woke  and 
the  Sun  was  laughing  on  the  hills !  " 

Many  seasons  sit  lightly  upon  a  form  when  Hope 
sits  with  them;  but  Despair  is  heavy,  and  again  the 
weight  of  many  years  bent  the  shoulders  of  the 
mother.  When  the  sun  leaves  a  cloud  of  glory,  it 
leaves  a  mass  of  murk;  thus  passed  the  light  from 
the  wrinkled  face  of  Gunthai. 

There  was  a  sigh  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke ;  a  sigh 
like  that  of  a  wind  that  is  heavy  with  rain:  "  There 
should  have  come  a  dream  loud  with  the  noises  of 
battle  and  shrill  with  the  flight  of  arrows!  Thus 
did  your  father  dream." 

So  Nu  Zhinga  went  a  second  and  a  third  and  a 
fourth  time  to  the  hill  of  dreams,  and  the  last  answer 
that  his  mother  heard  was  like  the  first.  And  on 
the  fifth  day  the  heart  of  the  old  mother  was  sore 
with  sorrow,  and  all  that  night  she  did  not  sleep,  but 
wept  and  moaned:  "How  shall  Gunthai  be  com 
forted  when  her  eyes  are  dim  and  her  fingers  stiff? 
Her  son  shall  not  be  mighty  in  the  hunt  and  battle, 
for  he  has  had  no  dream." 

The  lad,  awakened  in  the  night  by  the  moaning  of 
his  mother,  knew  in  an  indefinite  way  that  he  was  the 
cause  of  so  much  grief;  and  in  his  breast  grew  a 
great  pang  of  soul  hunger  that  would  not  pass  away. 
Even  with  the  giant  joy  of  the  sunrise  it  did  not 
pass  away. 


THE    END    OF   THE    DREAM       157 

In  the  early  light  Nu  Zhinga  passed  out  of  the  vil 
lage,  for  his  heart  was  heavy.  As  he  walked,  lo 
everything  was  sad  except  the  sun,  and  the  light  of 
its  gladness  deepened  the  shadow  of  his  sorrow. 
The  sound  of  the  wind  moving  in  the  bunch  grass  of 
the  hillside  was  like  a  faint  cry  of  a  great  pain.  At 
length  he  threw  himself  down  and  buried  his  face 
in  the  grass.  The  despair  of  those  who  dream  day 
dreams  was  upon  him.  There  was  night  in  his  heart; 
his  small  body  shook  with  sobs.  A  long  while  he 
lay  thus,  nor  did  he  hear  the  soft  step  that  stopped 
beside  him. 

At  length  Nu  Zhinga  raised  his  head  from  the 
grass  and  saw  Tabea  sitting  beside  him  with  pity  in 
her  eyes  and  in  the  attitude  of  her  crooked  little  body. 
Without  a  word  they  stared  each  into  the  face  of 
the  other;  and  as  Nu  Zhinga  looked,  the  desolate 
grey  of  the  world  began  to  develop  its  wonted 
brilliance  of  colour,  as  though  the  union  of  their 
tears  had  produced  a  prism. 

At  length  these  two  arose  and  walked  among  the 
hills,  dreaming  as  was  their  wont,  and  again  the  sun 
light  entered  the  heart  of  Nu  Zhinga.  When  the 
two  outcasts  entered  the  village,  even  though  the 
youths  trooped  behind  them  shouting  "  Peazha  I  " 
(no  good),  yet  the  sunlight  did  not  pass;  for  upon 
one  hand  walked  the  dreams  of  Nu  Zhinga  and  upon 
the  other,  Tabea. 

One  day  in  the  time  of  the  gathering  of  the  maize, 
when  the  brown  hills  shivered  with  the  first  frosts, 


158  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

the  voice  of  a  crier  was  heard  through  the  village 
calling  the  braves  to  battle;  for  the  big  chief  of  the 
Omahas  would  lead  a  war  party  against  the  Sioux. 

So  the  old  woman  Gunthai  took  down  the  weapons 
of  her  fallen  brave  from  the  side  of  the  tepee  where 
they  had  hung  in  idleness  for  many  moons.  She 
strung  the  long  unbent  bow  with  a  thong  of  buckskin 
and  retipped  the  arrows  with  the  feathers  of  the 
hawk.  Then  she  wept  over  them,  and  blessed  them 
with  weird  songs ;  and  calling  Nu  Zhinga  to  her  side, 
placed  them  in  his  hands,  and  said:  "Bring  them 
back  red  with  the  blood  of  the  Sioux!  " 

And  the  youth  took  them,  wondering  why  it  was 
so  very  great  a  thing  to  kill. 

Then  the  war  party  rode  out  of  the  village  and 
Nu  Zhinga  rode  with  it.  And  there  were  two  who 
climbed  to  the  highest  hill  and,  shading  their  eyes 
with  their  hands,  watched  the  braves  disappear  into 
the  distance.  They  were  Gunthai  and  Tabea,  and 
the  hopes  of  each  were  great.  For  might  not  even 
Nu  Zhinga  do  great  deeds?  Such  things  had  been. 

After  many  days  the  returning  band  rode  up  the 
valley  that  rang  with  the  song  of  victory.  But  when 
it  rode  into  the  village,  a  great  cry  went  up  against 
Nu  Zhinga,  the  squaw-hearted.  For  in  the  battle 
with  the  Sioux  his  pony  had  fallen  with  an  arrow 
in  its  breast,  and  when  the  Omahas  returned  from 
the  pitiless  pursuit  of  their  flying  foes,  they  found 
him  crying  like  a  squaw  over  the  carcass  of  the 
animal. 


THE    END   OF  THE    DREAM       159 

When  the  people  heard  this  concerning  Nu 
Zhinga,  an  angry  cry,  like  that  of  a  strong  wind  in 
a  thicket,  passed  over  the  multitude  gathered  about 
the  braves.  "  Let  him  go  work  with  the  squaws!  " 
they  cried.  And  the  unanimous  cry  of  a  people  is 
a  law. 

So  Nu  Zhinga,  the  squaw-hearted,  carried  water 
and  wood  with  the  women  and  was  patient.  At  least 
he  had  Tabea  ever  near  him,  which  was  like  living 
in  the  light  of  perpetual  sunrise,  and  hope,  like  an 
incurable  disease,  would  not  leave  his  breast. 

The  old  woman  Gunthai  seeing  how  more  than 
squaw-hearted  her  son  had  grown,  sat  in  her  lodge 
weaving  the  baskets  of  willow.  But  the  hope  of  her 
heart  was  gone.  How  she  had  dreamed  of  the  prow 
ess  of  her  little  man!  How  he  would  be  mighty 
among  his  people;  mighty  with  the  arm  that  is  piti 
less  and  strong — a  slayer  of  enemies !  But  now — 
and  the  old  woman's  thought  would  check  itself  at 
that  barren  gulch  in  the  hills  through  which  Death 
comes  like  a  blast  of  bitter  winds,  for  she  could  see 
no  further. 

So  the  suns  came  and  went;  but  there  was  night 
for  her  in  the  brightest  noon;  the  seasons  passed, 
but  for  her  heart  there  was  cold,  even  in  the  kind 
midsummer. 

One  day  in  the  time  of  the  cubs  (December)  it 
happened  that  a  child  of  the  village  was  stricken 
with  a  mysterious  sickness.  The  fierce  heat  of  the 
time  of  the  sunflowers  blazed  in  its  blood.  Its  eyes 


160          THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

glowed  with  the  brightness  of  a  burning  thing.  Its 
lips  muttered  strange  words  that  were  not  the  words 
of  men;  and  those  who  listened,  trembled.  And 
after  some  time,  the  whole  burning  body  of  the  child 
became  one  mass  of  sores. 

It  was  then  that  Washkahee,the  big  medicine-man, 
came  to  the  lodge  of  the  sick,  sang  his  most  potent 
songs  and  performed  his  most  mysterious  rites.  But 
one  day  the  child  leaped  to  its  feet  and  stared  at  the 
wall  with  eyes  that  were  glazed  with  terror;  then 
shrieked  and  fell  back  limply  into  its  blankets.  And 
when  the  winter  had  crept  into  its  burning  blood, 
they  buried  it  upon  a  hill;  and  the  wonder  of  the 
village  was  great. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  Another  and  another 
crept  into  his  blankets,  stricken  with  the  same  sick 
ness.  Then  another  and  another,  until  from  many 
lodges  came  the  moans  of  the  afflicted.  Those  who 
dwelt  in  the  lodges  where  the  scourge  entered,  fled 
from  their  stricken  kinsmen  as  from  the  visible  body 
of  Death.  They  who  could  laugh  back  at  the  chal 
lenge  of  the  Sioux,  quailed  before  the  subtle  creeping 
of  this  invisible  foe.  They  who  were  as  yet  un 
touched  by  the  unseen  Hand,  huddled  terrified  and 
speechless  about  their  fires,  in  the  light  of  which  they 
stared  at  each  other  and  found  each  face  ghastly,  as 
though  it  were  the  mirror  of  their  dread. 

In  the  stillness  of  their  bated  breaths  they  heard 
the  lonesome  monotony  of  the  winter  wind  and  the 
swish  of  the  drifting  snow,  through  the  drone  of 


THE    END   OF  THE    DREAM       161 

which  pierced  like  arrows  of  ice  the  occasional  shrieks 
of  the  deserted  dying  or  those  who  battled  with  gro 
tesque  terrors  in  the  giddy  whirl  of  feverish  delirium. 

With  trembling  fingers  the  women  bound  blankets 
closely  across  the  doors  of  the  lodges,  in  the  hope 
of  barring  out  the  black  spirit  that  wandered  about 
the  village.  Vain  hope !  Through  the  walls  of  the 
strongest  lodge  crept  the  subtle  spirit. 

One  night  the  sound  of  a  wild  voice  crying 
through  the  storm  beat  into  the  lodges : 

"  Washkahee  has  cried  to  Wakunda  [God]  and 
lo !  Washkahee  has  dreamed !  Only  a  tuft  of  hair 
from  the  head  of  the  white  bison  can  save  us!  So 
spoke  the  dream  to  Washkahee;  who  will  seek  the 
white  bison?  " 

It  was  as  though  the  winter  wind  had  found 
words !  The  people,  huddled  about  their  fires,  knew 
the  voice  to  be  that  of  the  big  medicine-man,  Wash 
kahee,  yet  they  did  not  move.  The  bravest  had 
become  weak  as  a  child  at  the  back  of  a  squaw. 

That  night  Nu  Zhinga,  lying  in  the  lodge  of  his 
mother,  heard  the  cry  that  came  out  of  the  storm; 
and  when  he  slept  he  dreamed.  He  had  walked  far 
across  the  white  prairie  and  his  legs  were  aching  with 
toil  and  his  heart  with  despair.  Then  there  broke 
upon  his  dream  a  mighty  roar,  and  lo !  he  saw,  charg 
ing  down  upon  him,  the  white  bison,  tossing  the 
crusted  snow  from  its  lowered  horns. 

"Tae  Ska!  Tae  Ska!"  (white  bison)  Nu 
Zhinga  cried,  and  was  awakened  by  his  own  voice. 


1 62  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

So  in  the  early  light  of  the  morning,  Nu  Zhinga 
took  down  the  bow  and  arrows  of  his  father,  and 
wrapping  himself  in  a  buffalo  robe,  he  strode  out 
into  the  prairie  with  his  tame  wolf  trotting  at  his 
heels.  To  him  the  dream  was  an  omen.  Might  he 
not  find  the  white  bison,  and  thus  drive  death  from 
among  his  people? 

As  he  walked,  the  dream  that  had  ever  crept  like 
a  slow  music  through  his  blood,  grew  into  the  sway 
ing  fury  of  a  battle-song.  He  timed  his  brisk  steps 
with  a  joyous  chant  that  echoed  up  the  frosty  valleys. 
He  would  find  the  white  bison!  Then  his  people 
would  shout  his  name  without  derision.  Gunthai 
would  be  glad;  Tabea  would  be  glad.  Tabea! 
The  word  was  music. 

But  meanwhile  in  the  village  thicker  and  thicker 
fell  the  invisible  arrows  of  the  Terror;  and  in  the 
lodges  where  they  fell  dwelt  the  cry  of  agony  and 
delirium  and  the  muffled  shriek  of  death.  The  old 
woman  Gunthai  and  the  cripple  Tabea  were  not 
spared.  The  old  and  the  young,  the  weak  and  the 
strong,  the  brave  and  the  cowardly  found  no  spell 
to  ward  away  the  stroke  of  the  hidden  Hand. 

At  length  the  fear  of  the  tribe  grew  into  a  frenzy. 
It  needed  but  an  incident  to  lash  it  into  madness. 

One  evening  as  the  night  crept  westward  across 
the  hills,  a  brave  leaped  upon  a  pony  and  yelling 
sent  the  frightened  animal  flying  up  the  valley.  He 
was  fleeing  from  the  curse  that  hung  over  the  village. 
Then  the  fear  became  a  madness.  The  people 


THE    END   OF  THE   DREAM       163 

rushed  from  their  lodges  and,  fighting  for  the  near 
est  pony,  fled  after  the  lone  rider  who  had  disap 
peared  into  the  night 

Those  who  were  too  weak  or  too  unfortunate  to 
gain  the  back  of  a  pony  hung  to  the  mane  and  were 
dragged  in  the  snow  until  their  grips  weakened,  when 
they  ran  with  frantic  shrieks  after  their  disappearing 
tribesmen.  The  valley  leading  from  the  village  be 
came  choked  with  the  fleeing  people.  Many  of  the 
stricken  leaped  from  their  blankets  and  followed  in 
the  wild  rout,  until  their  knees  weakened  and  their 
brains  swam,  when  they  lay  shrieking  in  the  snow 
until  death  came. 

From  the  deserted  village  the  cries  of  the  helpless 
followed  the  unhearing  refugees,  who  fled  as  the 
bison  flee  when  the  pitiless  hunter  follows.  Fainter 
and  fainter  grew  the  yelling  until  it  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  wind  that  lashed  the  spraying  snow.  When 
the  morning  looked  into  the  valley,  it  found  no 
smoke  arising  from  the  silent  lodges.  Only  the  dead 
were  there;  the  dead  and  the  winter. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  after  the  flight 
of  the  tribe,  a  lone  form  topped  the  hill  above  the 
village  and  looked  down  into  the  still  white  valley, 
where  lay  the  snow-choked  lodges,  quiet  as  a  dream. 
The  form  was  short,  and  bent  as  with  the  toil  and 
hunger  of  a  long,  hard  trail.  At  its  heels  a  gaunt, 
grey  wolf  limped  and  whimpered  with  the  ache  of 
emptiness  and  the  frost. 

The  short,  bent  form  stood  still  upon  the  summit 


1 64  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

and  shading  its  eyes  with  a  hand  that  trembled,  cast 
a  long  and  searching  gaze  upon  the  lodges  of  his 
people.  No  smoke,  no  voice,  no  roar  of  fires, 
scented  with  the  evening  meal ! 

The  form  straightened  itself  and  stood  with  head 
thrown  back,  making  a  thin  and  pitiful  figure  against 
the  cruel  white  glare  of  the  icy  evening  sky.  It  put 
a  hand  to  its  mouth,  trumpet-wise,  and  raising  the 
other  above  its  head,  waved  about  a  tuft  of  long, 
grey  hair. 

"  Tae  Ska !    Tae  Ska !  " 

The  voice  was  scarcely  raised  above  a  faint,  dry 
wheeze  that  sighed  dirge-like  above  the  lifeless  val 
ley.  The  grey  wolf  with  its  four  trembling  legs 
drawn  together  in  the  snow,  raised  its  frost-whitened 
muzzle  to  the  fading  sky  and  with  a  long,  wild  wail 
drowned  the  feebler  voice  of  its  master. 

With  limping  stride,  grown  short  and  uncertain 
as  the  first  steps  of  a  papoose,  the  form  went  down 
the  hillside  and  entered  the  village  where  the  Winter 
dwelt. 

"  Tae  Ska !  Tae  Ska !  I  have  found  the  white 
bison!" 

The  wheezing  voice  passed  among  the  lodges  like 
a  mournful  wind  that  haunts  the  lonesome  places  of 
a  bluff.  Round  and  round  the  village  went  the  man 
and  the  wolf,  crying  into  the  silent  lodges;  and  the 
man's  face  was  wolf  like  with  weariness  and  hunger; 
and  the  wolf's  eyes  were  grown  half  human  with  the 
pinch  of  emptiness  and  frost. 


THE    END   OF  THE    DREAM       165 

"  Why  do  you  not  come  forth,  for  I  have  suffered 
and  I  have  the  tuft  of  hair?  No  more  shall  the 
black  spirits  dwell  among  us!  Come  forth  and  look 
upon  the  face  of  him  whose  heart  was  the  heart  of 
a  squaw !  " 

The  crisp  snow  whined  beneath  his  step  and  the 
wolf  whined  beside  him.  At  last  the  form  stopped 
before  a  lodge  and  with  a  trembling  hand  drew  away 
the  covering  at  the  entrance. 

It  was  the  lodge  of  Gunthai.  Two  forms  lay 
within,  huddled  in  their  blankets,  and  the  snows  had 
drifted  about  them.  The  man  pulled  the  blankets 
from  their  faces.  One  was  Gunthai  and  the  other 
Tabea.  Each  was  pinched  with  the  pinch  of  death 
and  winter,  and  the  mystery  of  the  last  long,  lone 
some  trail  was  about  them  both. 

With  a  moan  the  form  tottered  and  fell  upon  its 
face  in  the  snow.  And  over  all  the  valley  there  were 
but  two  sounds — the  wail  of  the  winter  wind  and  the 
howl  of  a  lone  wolf. 

Days  passed,  and  the  people  who  had  fled  from 
home  with  the  pitiless  scourge  at  their  heels  grew 
faint  and  weary  with  their  wandering,  and  at  last 
the  homeache  drove  them  back  upon  their  trail. 
Footsore,  famished,  racked  with  the  now  dead  terror, 
they  toiled  in  silence  homeward,  where  they  could  die 
with  the  sound  of  their  own  fires  in  their  ears. 

At  last  one  morning  a  lone  rider  cautiously  peered 
from  under  the  brow  of  the  hill  upon  the  village. 
Nothing  moved  below.  He  urged  his  emaciated 


1 66  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

pony  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  and  stopping,  gazed 
again,  shading  his  eyes  with  a  hand  grown  weak  and 
thin.  There  seemed  nothing  in  the  valley  to  fear. 
Turning  about  upon  his  pony,  he  raised  his  arms  in 
the  light  of  dawn  and  cried  back  into  the  valley  be 
yond  to  the  waiting  remnant  of  his  people — a  long, 
exultant  cry,  for  he  had  looked  upon  his  home. 

Slowly  the  returning  tribe,  now  dwindled  to  half 
its  former  numbers,  toiled  up  the  hill.  Only  the 
strong  were  left,  and  now  the  strong  were  weak. 
The  straggling  band  of  men,  women  and  ponies 
reached  the  summit,  a  pitiful,  ragged  multitude,  and 
gazed  for  a  moment  into  the  valley.  Then  a  great 
shout  arose  above  the  silent  spaces,  scintillant  under 
the  dawn,  as  the  halting,  famished  band  swooped 
down  the  hill  to  be  again  at  home. 

Again  the  fires  roared  upward  from  the  lodges, 
and  the  voices  of  a  happy  people  drove  away  the 
silence  of  the  winter.  There  was  no  longer  any  dis 
ease;  the  winter  and  the  flight  had  purged  the  tribe. 

Who  had  saved  them  from  the  black  spirits? 
Could  a  tribe  run  faster  than  the  things  which  are 
not  good? 

The  sun  was  at  the  centre  of  its  short  path  when 
the  answer  to  this  question  of  the  tribe  broke  into 
the  lodges  where  the  people  sat  about  their  steaming 
kettles.  For  it  was  then  that  one  ran  through  the 
village  waving  a  tuft  of  long,  grey  hair  and  startling 
the  ears  of  his  people  with  a  shout : 

"  See  1     The  tuft  of  hair  from  the  head  of  the 


THE    END   OF  THE    DREAM       167 

white  bison !  It  has  saved  us;  for  do  you  not  remem 
ber  the  words  of  Washkahee?  " 

The  people  rushed  from  their  lodges  and  thronged 
about  the  man  who  held  the  tuft  of  hair. 

"  Who  has  found  the  white  bison?  "  they  cried. 

And  the  answer  of  him  who  held  the  tuft  of  hair 
struck  the  people  silent  with  wonder: 

"It  was  Nu  Zhinga,  the  squaw-hearted;  even  he 
who  could  not  dream  a  dream  1  " 


XI 
THE  REVOLT  OF  A  SHEEP 

"There   is   nothing   more   terrible   than   the   revolt   of   a   sheep," 
said  De  Marsay. — Balzac. 

OH,  shut  up,  Hank!     Dang  it!     Hain't  you 
goin'  to  let  a  feller  sleep  none?    How  can 
I  be  strong  enough  to  keep  from  snivellin' 
in  the  mornin',  if  I  don't  get  my  sleep?  " 

A  small  man  with  a  thin,  weak  face,  that  might 
have  suggested  the  vacuous  countenance  of  a  sheep 
had  it  not  been  for  an  expression  of  anguish  and 
childish  petulance,  sat  up  among  a  bunch  of  furs 
in  the  corner  of  the  cabin.  He  supported  himself 
tremblingly  upon  an  arm  and  stared  with  watery, 
haggard  eyes  upon  Hank,  who  regarded  him  wist 
fully. 

Hank  was  a  big  man  and  raw-boned.  His  big, 
quiet,  hirsute  face  contrasted  strongly  with  the  face 
of  the  other.  About  his  waist  hung  a  belt  contain 
ing  a  pair  of  six-shooters.  Since  the  dark  had  fallen 
he  had  been  pacing  nervously  back  and  forth  across 
the  cabin  floor,  his  eyebrows  knit,  his  face  twitching, 
now  and  then  offering  a  soft  word  of  comfort  to 
the  little  man  who  lay  among  the  furs  in  the  corner 
breathing  fitfully. 

"  Cuss   your  hide,   Hank!     You   know   I   hain't 

168 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      169 

slep'  none  for  a  week,  and  you  go  on  a-trampin'  and 
a-gabbin'  till  you  got  me  all  on  needles !  Why  can't 
you  leave  me  be?  O  damn  it!  " 

The  last  words  were  more  like  a  sob  than  a  curse ; 
and  the  white,  thin  face  and  quivering  lips  seemed 
too  impotent  for  the  words.  Hank  stopped  pacing 
up  and  down,  and  with  his  fists  resting  upon  his  hips 
he  stared  at  the  little  man. 

"  Now,  Sheep,"  he  drawled  kindly,  "  you  hain't 
got  no  call  to  talk  that  away.  Hain't  I  tryin'  to  be 
your  friend  to  the  finish?  I  was  just  thinkin'  to  cheer 
you  up  so's  you'd  make  a  respect'ble,  manly  hangin'. 
I  didn't  go  to  rile  you." 

The  little  man  thus  addressed  as  "  Sheep  "  drew 
himself  up  into  a  shivering  bunch  among  the  furs 
and  groaned.  The  big  man  shook  his  head  slowly 
and  sat  down,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  cabin. 
"  Pore  Sheep,"  he  muttered. 

For  an  hour  he  sat  with  his  chin  in  his  hands, 
staring  with  pitying  eyes  upon  the  huddled  little 
man,  who  now  and  again  shook  with  shuddering 
sobs.  The  candle  flame  flickered  dismally  in  the 
night  wind  that  came  in  through  the  chinks  in  the 
wall. 

At  length  a  series  of  stifled  groans  grew  up  among 
the  furs,  accompanied  by  a  spasmodic  jerking  of  the 
limbs  of  the  little  man.  With  a  deep  sigh  he  sat  up. 
With  an  imbecile  droop  of  the  lower  jaw,  and  eyes 
that  burned  feverishly  with  utter  horror,  he  stared 
at  his  companion. 


1 7o  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

"O  cuss  you,  Hank!  "  he  broke  out  querulously, 
"  why  can't  you  talk  none?  You  goin'  to  let  me 
keep  a-slippin'  down,  down,  down  right  into  hell 
and  never  say  a  word  to  me  ?  What  you  settin'  there 
like  a  bump  on  a  log  for?  " 

"  W'y,  Sheep,"  said  the  big  man  kindly;  "  thought 
you  was  tryin'  to  snooze." 

"  Snooze !  How  can  I  snooze  with  a  million  little 
devils  runnin'  up  and  down  my  backbone  and  a- 
dancin'  all  over  my  head?  You  knowed  I  couldn't 
sleep !  You  knowed  I  hain't  slep'  for  a  week ! 
Snooze!  O  damn  it!  Hain't  I  goin'  to  get  plenty 
of  snoozin'  when  they  drag  the  cart  out  from  'n 
under  me  in  the  mornin'?  " 

Sheep's  voice  broke;  the  fire  went  out  of  his  eyes; 
his  teeth  chattered  as  though  a  sudden  gust  of  winter 
had  struck  him. 

"  Now,  Sheep,"  said  Hank,  "  don't  be  so  riled  up 
like.  I  know  it's  hard  to  go  out  that  away;  but  it 
won't  last  long,  and  it  can't  hurt  much  after  the  first 
jerk.  I  reckon  it  don't  matter  much  how  a  feller 
goes  out  after  he's  gone." 

"  Oh,  shut  that  up !  " 

The  little  man  leaned  against  the  wall  and  closed 
his  eyes.  After  a  considerable  silence  the  big  man 
produced  a  flask  of  liquor  and  spoke  soothingly. 

"Want  a  drink,  Sheepy,  old  man?  " 

The  little  man  leaped  up  with  a  glimmer  of  hope 
in  his  eyes. 

"'Course  I  do!     What  made  you  keep  a-hidin' 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      171 

it  when  you  knowed  all  along  that's  what  I  been 
wantin'?" 

He  grasped  the  flask  and  drank  with  great  eager 
gulps  until  it  was  empty.  Then  he  sat  down  against 
the  cabin  wall,  staring  fixedly  at  the  candle  flame. 
The  empty,  sheepish,  cowardly  face  began  to  gain 
expression  as  the  liquor  mounted  to  his  head.  A 
light  of  fearlessness  began  to  grow  in  his  eyes.  Lines 
appeared  and  deepened  in  his  thin  face,  suggesting 
at  once  a  certain  degree  of  mastery  and  infinite  malev 
olence.  The  wolf  that  lurks  somewhere  in  the 
fastness  of  every  man's  soul  had  come  forth  and 
routed  the  sheep. 

"  What  in  thunder  you  doin'  with  all  that  heavy 
artillery  hangin'  to  you,  Hank?  Take  'em  off!  I 
don't  need  no  guards.  Who  said  I  was  thinkin'  of 
breakin'  camp?  I  hain't  tryin'  to  run,  am  I?  Damn 
me,  I'm  glad  I  done  it  and  I'm  a-goin'  to  walk  right 
straight  into  hell  a-grinnin' !  Sheep,  am  I?" 

The  little  man  laughed  a  strange  laugh  that  had 
the  snarl  of  a  mad  wolf  in  it;  a  moment  since  he  had 
been  bleating  like  a  scared  lamb. 

*  You  set  there  and  listen.  Sheep,  sheep,  sheep ! 
That's  what  they  all  been  a-callin'  me,  but  when  I 
get  done  tellin'  you  about  it,  I  guess  you  won't  call 
me  no  sheep.  Hain't  a  danged  one  of  you  big  fellers 
as  would  Ve  done  it  up  better  'n  me! 

'  You've  knowed  me  quite  a  spell,  Hank;  and  you 
never  knowed  no  bad  of  me  till  now,  did  you  ?  And  I 
hain't  had  any  easy  trail  most  of  the  time  neither. 


1 72  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

When  I  was  jest  a  little  feller  goin'  to  country  school 
back  East,  the  other  fellers  always  picked  onto  me 
'cause  I  was  so  easy  to  pick  onto.  Never  had  a  fight 
in  my  life.  Always  scared  to  death  of  fightin'; 
sucked  it  in  with  my  mother's  milk,  I  guess.  Used 
to  get  off  alone  and  bawl  'cause  I  couldn't  make 
myself  fight. 

"  Never  was  a  real  boy;  always  a  kind  of  a  stray 
sheep,  bleatin'  around  in  lonesome  places.  Guess 
I  must  look  like  a  sheep ;  anyway  the  boys  called  me 
that ;  and  it  stuck.  Pretty  hard  bein'  a  sheep  amongst 
wolves,  Hank! 

"  I  was  always  shy  and  easy  scared,  Hank.  I 
never  owned  it  to  a  livin'  man  before;  but  a  man  is 
like  to  say  things  just  before  he  goes  out  for  good 
that  he  wouldn't  say  before. 

"  You  knowed  oF  man  Leclerc,  didn't  you?  Her 
dad,  you  know.  Used  to  live  down-river  half  a  day's 
hard  walkin'.  I  reckon  that  oF  man  was  about  the 
best  friend  I  ever  had,  'ceptin'  you,  Hank.  Kind  of 
seemed  to  understand  me  like.  Wonder  if  he's 
hearin'  me  now!  Don't  give  a  damn  if  he  is!  He 
knowed  it  wasn't  in  me  to  be  bad,  and  he  knows  I 
done  right.  I  tell  you,  Hank,  I  ain't  scared,  nor 
'shamed  nor  nothin'.  Damn  me,  I  can  see  Donahan 
a-dyin'  yet,  and  it  does  me  good,  Hank!  Does  me 
good!" 

The  little  man's  eyes  blazed,  and  his  face  seemed 
to  take  fire  from  them.  But  the  light  died  as  quickly 
as  it  was  kindled,  like  a  fire  in  too  little  fuel  whipped 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      173 

by  a  wind  too  strong.  A  soft  light  of  reminiscence 
lingered  where  the  fiercer  glow  had  died. 

u  Used  to  go  down  there  pretty  often  when  I 
could;  part  to  see  the  oF  man,  and  most  to  see  his 
girl.  Nice  little  thing,  Hank;  awful  nice  little  thing! 
Don't  you  think  so?  Good  as  an  angel,  too,  but 
weak  like  a  woman  can  be.  I  hain't  nothin'  again' 
her,  Hank — so  help  me  God,  I  hain't !  I  wasn't  the 
man  for  her.  She'd  ought  to  Ve  had  a  big,  strong, 
quiet  feller  what  wasn't  afraid  of  the  devil.  Some 
feller  like  you,  Hank — or  Donahan. 

"  Oh,  let  the  hottest  fires  in  hell  eat  Donahan !  " 

The  little  man  shook  with  a  passion  that  seemed 
grotesque,  because  it  was  too  big  for  him. 

"  And  I  kep'  goin'  down  there,  and  goin'  down 
there,  till  I  begun  to  be  happy,  Hank.  Begun  to 
thinkin'  part  of  this  world  was  made  for  me.  Begun 
to  thinkin'  about  havin'  a  woman  and  babies;  and 
somehow  I  got  to  feelin'  bigger  and  stronger,  and 
not  sneakin'  any  more. 

"  'Feared  like  the  girl  liked  me.  Never  had 
nothin'  to  do  with  no  woman  'cept  my  mother,  you 
know.  Oh,  Hank,  why  can't  a  feller  be  a  man  when 
he  wants  to  so  bad?  I  dunno.  I  tried. 

"  Well,  one  time  I  went  down  there  and  oP  man 
Leclerc  was  pretty  sick.  Said  he  was  a-goin'  to  die 
sure  thing.  Wheezin'  already  and  pickin'  at  the 
blankets.  Calls  me  up  to  him,  and  after  he  got 
done  tellin'  me  what  he  was  goin'  to  do  d'rectly,  he 
says :  *  Sheep,  my  boy,  I've  brought  her  up  as  near 


174          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

like  a  French  lady  as  I  knowed  how.  She  hain't 
able  to  hustle  for  herself,  and — well,  ain't  she  a 
pretty  girl?  Why  the  devil  don't  you  ask  me  for 
her?' 

"  And  I  asked,  and  the  oP  man  said  '  yes,'  and 
that  was  his  last  word,  'cept  *  God  be  with  both  of 
you.'  Took  all  his  breath  to  say  that,  seemed  like. 

"  And  so  I  saw  the  oP  man  under  ground  and 
come  up  here  with  the  girl.  Got  the  missionary, 
Father  Donahan,  to  do  the  tyin'.  (Oh,  damn  him!) 
And  then  I  begun  to  be  happy.  Seemed  like  God 
heard  the  oP  man  for  a  spell,  tho'  his  voice  was  weak 
when  he  said  it.  Now  I  guess  mebbe  he  didn't  hear. 
Does  he  always  hear,  Hank?  " 

"  Dunno,"  muttered  the  big  man,  who  sat  with 
his  face  in  his  hands;  "  seems  like  He  ain't  out  here 
't  all,  sometimes." 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  will  you?"  peevishly  snapped  the 
little  man.  "  Le'  me  talk!  You  got  plenty  of  time 
for  talkin'!  Le'  me  talk,  will  you?  " 

The  big  man  sighed,  and  the  other  continued 
rapidly  in  a  sort  of  a  dazed  sing-song  voice  with 
little  inflection  in  it,  like  a  man  in  a  trance. 

"  Big  change  come  over  me  then;  better  man  all 
'round.  Factor  saw  it  and  sent  me  on  some  long 
trips;  seemed  to  trust  me  more'n  before.  But  I 
always  done  the  longest  trips  in  the  shortest  poss'ble 
time.  Doted  on  that  girl  wife,  and  I  guess  I  was 
about  the  happiest  feller  that  ever  cussed  a  pack 
mule.  Used  to  like  to  set  around  the  cabin  when  I 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      175 

could  and  watch  her  skip  about  the  place  makin' 
things  comfort'ble  like  a  woman  can  when  she's  a 
mind. 

"  And  by  and  by  I  was  happier'n  ever.  That  was 
when  the  little  boy  come.  Cute  little  feller,  that 
boy  was.  Don't  you  mind?  Had  blue  eyes,  and  that 
tickled  me  half  to  death,  'cause  black  eyes  is  the  rule 
in  my  fambly  and  hers,  and  it  seemed  like  God  was 
tryin'  to  be  kind  to  me. 

;<  When  Father  Donahan  christened  the  young'n, 
I  drawed  his  attention  to  them  blue  eyes  and  Dona 
han  (no,  I  ain't  goin'  to  call  him  Father  no  more, 
'cause  if  he  was  a  priest,  he  was  a  priest  of  the 
devil!)  What  was  I  sayin'?" 

At  the  sound  of  Donahan's  name  upon  his  own 
lips,  the  little  man's  face  writhed  into  malevolent 
contortions. 

"  What  was  I  sayin'  ?  "  he  repeated  dazedly. 

"  Blue  eyes,"  suggested  Hank. 

"  Quit  breakin'  in  onto  me  that  away!  "  snapped 
the  little  man  peevishly.  "  And  when  I  showed  him 
the  blue  eyes,  Donahan  grinned  and  said,  '  Yes,  God 
had  been  very  kind.'  And  it  did  look  like  it, 
didn't  it? 

u  Donahan  named  the  boy;  asked  me  if  I'd  let  him. 
Called  him  James  for  a  front  name  and  Donahan  for 
a  middle  one.  Well,  things  went  along  smooth  until 
one  day  the  little  feller  died.  Made  me  feel  pretty 
bad — like  to  tore  my  heart  out.  But  Donahan  he 
come  and  cried  too,  and  that  helped.  Always  helps 


i?6          THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

to  have  somebody  feel  bad  with  you ;  don't  you  think 
so? 

"  After  that  things  dragged  on  like  they  have  a 
way  of  doin'.  I  kep'  on  tryin'  to  be  like  a  man.  But 
the  girl,  she  seemed  to  be  takin'  it  pretty  hard.  Got 
stranger  and  stranger  toward  me,  like  as  if  she  didn't 
care  for  me  no  more.  Donahan  used  to  come  in 
often  and  console  her,  and  she  seemed  to  brighten 
up  at  them  times — 'cause  she  was  always  strong  on 
the  religion  business.  That's  what  made  her  so 
good,  I  guess. 

"  But  by  and  by  there  was  goin'  to  be  another 
youngster,  and  I  kind  of  got  into  the  way  of  whistlin' 
again  somehow.  Got  to  thinkin'  how  it'd  be  a  boy 
with  blue  eyes  like  the  one  that  died.  About  that 
time  the  Factor  sent  me  off  on  a  long  trip.  Hated 
to  go,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped.  You'd  ought  to 
seen  me  travel,  Hank!  Wantin'  to  get  back,  you 
know;  'feared  all  the  time  mebbe  she  was  sick  and 
a-wantin'  me.  Made  a  quick  trip — quicker'n  most 
big  men  could,  Hank.  And  when  I  come  in  sight 
of  home,  I  was  that  glad  that  I  couldn't  feel  my  feet 
and  legs  achin'. 

"  It  was  night  when  I  got  back,  and  I  thought 
I'd  just  take  a  peep  in  at  the  winder  before  I  went 
in;  light  was  shinin'  out  so  home-like.  You  know 
how  a  boy  looks  a  long  time  at  a  big,  red  apple  be 
fore  he  eats  it;  gettin'  his  eyes  full  of  it  before  he 
fills  his  belly?  That  was  like  me. 

"I  crep'  up  and  looked  in;  winder  was  raised  a 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      177 

little.  I  could  see  Donahan  inside  and  he  was  talkin' 
soft  and  low. 

"  '  Hope  it'll  have  blue  eyes,'  he  was  sayin' ;  *  blue 
eyes  like  mine.'  And  that  made  me  love  Donahan 
more,  'cause  it  was  just  what  I  was  a-wishin'  myself. 
Talked  along  quite  a  spell,  and  me  watchin'  outside, 
all  the  time  pityin'  Donahan  'cause  he  couldn't  never 
have  no  little  woman  like  that  and  a  youngster  with 
blue  eyes. 

"  And  the  talkin'  growed  into  a  mumble  and  hum 
like  as  if  I  was  a-dreamin'  it  all  in  a  happy  dream; 
until  all  to  oncet  some  of  the  words  leaped  out  of  the 
hum,  and  stood  out  clear  like  so  many  candle  flames 
a-burnin'  into  my  head,  and  a-scorchin'  my  backbone, 
and  a-settin'  the  whole  world  afire  with  bloody  light. 

"  I  held  onto  the  winder  sill  to  keep  from  fallin' 
down,  and  this  is  what  I  heard :  '  Sometimes  I  feel 
sorry  for  the  pore  sheep ;  and  I've  spent  many  nights 
prayin'  to  God  about  it  and  askin'  him  to  forgive 
me.  Then  when  I  see  you  again,  it  all  comes  back 
and  the  prayers  are  no  more  than  so  many  curses. 
What'd  you  ever  marry  that  sheep  for?  Curse  the 
day  that  I  was  made  a  priest !  ' 

"  And  then  the  words  seemed  to  get  muffled,  only 
now  and  then  I  could  hear  some  of  'em  plain,  and 
every  one  of  'em  was  like  a  big  man's  fist  drivin* 
into  my  face  and  a-beatin'  my  eyes  full  of  blood." 

The  little  man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  sobbed. 

"  O,  I  ain't  a-blamin'  her,  Hank,"  he  blubbered. 


178  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

"  Never  was  a  better  woman.  I  ain't  blamin' 
her." 

He  rocked  himself  back  and  forth  for  some  time. 
His  sobbing  ceased.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  face 
and  the  flames  of  hell  glittered  in  his  tear-washed 
eyes. 

"  I'm  a  white-livered  coward,  so  I  didn't  go  in 
and  kill  him.  He  was  a  big  man,  and  I  ain't  no 
fighter.  I  run;  don't  know  why.  Didn't  feel  sore 
nor  achy  in  my  legs  no  more.  I  run  and  run  and  run 
till  my  breath  give  out,  then  I  fell  down  and  the 
stars  swum  'round  and  went  out.  Then  after  awhile 
I  was  up  and  walkin',  and  nothin'  would  stand  still. 
Things  danced  round  and  round  me  and  the  air  was 
full  of  little  spiteful,  spittin'  lights  and  sounds  like 
devils  a-laughin'.  And  by  and  by  I  come  to  ol'  man 
Leclerc's  place.  Don't  know  why  I  went  there. 
Nothin'  there  but  the  place. 

"  I  went  in  and  laid  down  on  the  floor  all  broke 
up.  And  when  I  went  to  sleep,  I  dreamed  of  killin' 
Donahan.  I  woke  up  and  it  was  mornin'. 

"  First  thing  I  heard  was  the  rattle  of  some  Red 
River  carts  goin'  north.  I  guess  it  was  the  devil  that 
whispered  somethin'  in  my  ear  then.  I  run  out  and 
told  a  big  lie  to  the  bull-whackers.  '  Man  a-dyin'  in 
here !  Go  as  fast  as  you  can  to  the  next  post  and  tell 
Father  Donahan  to  come  down  to  see  the  pore 
devil  through  with  it !  ' 

"  Guess  I  looked  like  I'd  been  settin'  up  for  a 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      179 

week,  so  the  bull-whackers  believed  it  and  went  on 
north  a-whackin'  their  bulls  into  a  swingin'  trot. 

"  Well,  Donahan  come  all  right." 

Here  the  little  man  lapsed  into  a  stubborn  silence. 
He  leaned  against  the  wall  and  for  several  hours 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  cabin  but  that  of  heavy 
breathing. 

At  length  Hank  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the 
little  window.  A  dull  grey  blur  had  grown  up  in 
the  East.  It  would  soon  be  time.  Hank  sighed. 

Suddenly  the  little  man  was  aroused  from  his 
lethargy  as  though  he  had  heard  a  shout.  He  began 
talking  rapidly. 

"  I  stood  behind  the  door  of  the  cabin,  and  when 
he  come  in  I  downed  him  with  a  club.  Then  I  tied 
his  hands  and  his  feet  and  fastened  him  to  the  floor. 
I  sat  beside  him  and  spit  in  his  face  till  he  come  to 
a-groanin'.  And  it  was  a  couple  days  before  he  could 
talk  sense  or  knowed  who  I  was. 

"  And  he  begged  and  he  cussed,  but  I  didn't  say 
nothin'.  He  got  hungry;  so  I  chawed  at  some  pem- 
mican  I  had  left  from  the  trip  so's  he'd  get  hungrier. 
He  got  thirsty;  so  I  drank  more'n  I  wanted  so's 
he'd  get  thirstier. 

"  Said  he'd  get  me  into  heaven  for  just  one  sup 
of  water;  so  I  went  out  with  my  cup;  I  filled  it  with 
dust ;  I  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Said  he'd  send  me  to  hell  if  I  didn't  give  him 
just  one  drop.  So  I  give  him  more  dust.  And  by  and 


1 8o  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

by  he  got  luny  like,  and  cussed  like  a  bull-whacker 
and  whined  like  a  sick  woman  by  turns. 

"God,  Hank!     How  that  man  hung  on! 

"  And  by  and  by  he  seemed  to  get  a  little  sense  for 
a  spell,  and  he  yelled  out :  '  He  had  blue  eyes, 
didn't  he?  Look  at  mine!'  And  I  cuffed  him  in 
the  mouth  till  his  teeth  was  bloody,  'cause  his  eyes 
was  blue." 

The  little  man  hesitated.  Suddenly  an  expression 
of  supreme  terror  came  over  his  face.  The  wolf 
was  dead — the  frightened  sheep  looked  out  of  his 
eyes.  There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps.  The  shabby 
light  of  early  dawn  had  already  cheapened  the  glow 
of  the  guttered  candle. 

The  door  opened — a  priest  entered. 

The  little  man  gave  a  yell  of  terror  and  shrank 
into  his  corner. 

"  Take  it  away,  Hank!  "  he  screamed.  "  Take 
it  away!  " 

Hank  spoke  a  few  words  into  the  ear  of  the  priest, 
who  muttered  a  prayer  and  went  out.  For  some 
time  the  little  man  stared  appealingly  into  the  eyes 
of  the  bigger  man.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
husky  and  low:  "  Won't  you  look  after  the  woman 
a  little,  Hank?  If  it's  got  blue  eyes " 

There  was  now  a  sound  of  other  footsteps  ap 
proaching.  The  little  man  gasped  like  one  who  has 
suddenly  been  thrust  into  cold  water. 

"  Oh,  Hank !  "  he  moaned ;  "  hold  me  tight.  Don't 
let  'em  take  me !  They'll  stand  me  in  the  cart  under 


THE    REVOLT    OF    A    SHEEP      181 

a  tree  and  they'll  put  the  rope  around  my  neck  and 
they'll  drag  the  cart  away!  Oh!" 

The  footsteps  were  now  very  near  the  door.  The 
little  man  on  a  sudden  became  very  quiet.  He  bit 
nervously  at  his  finger-tips.  His  body  stiffened.  His 
face  seemed  transparent. 

When  the  sound  of  a  hand  at  the  latch  was  heard, 
his  jaw  dropped  nervelessly.  He  stared  upon  the 
soon-to-be-opened  door  with  wide,  dilated  eyes,  in 
which  all  that  had  been  human  was  burned  to  dust. 


XII 
THE   MARK  OF  SHAME 

IN  the  old  times  there  were  two  brothers,  Seha 
and  Ishneda;  and  because  of  hate  for  him, 
they  did  many  acts  of  unkindness  to  a  man 
whose  name  was  Shonga  Saba. 

And  one  night  a  man  was  killed  and  the  man  was 
Ishneda.  So  with  the  coming  of  the  light,  a  whisper 
ran  about  the  village,  saying  "  Shonga  Saba  has 
killed."  And  the  whisper  was  true;  for  Shonga  Saba 
sat  in  his  lodge  all  day,  speaking  no  word.  And 
when  any  came  to  speak,  he  lifted  his  lip  in  a  bad 
way  and  snarled.  A  sick  wolf  does  so. 

It  happened  that  morning  that  some  hunters  went 
forth,  for  it  was  the  time  for  the  hunting  of  bison 
and  the  tribe  was  resting  on  the  trail.  And  when 
the  hunters  returned,  their  eyes  were  like  the  eyes 
of  a  scared  deer.  They  told  a  story  that  frightened 
the  people.  They  had  shot  at  three  elk  and  their 
aim  was  true;  but  the  arrows  came  out  on  the  other 
side — bloodless.  And  the  elk  changed  into  wolves, 
running  away  very  swiftly. 

So  they  who  were  wise  saw  famine  coming.  They 
recalled  old  times;  how  the  game  had  often  failed 
after  a  murder.  For  the  spirit  of  the  dead  man 
makes  it  so.  And  the  wise  old  men  told  these  things, 

182 


THE    MARK   OF   SHAME  183 

and  the  old  women  said  it  had  been  so;  they 
remembered. 

So  there  was  a  space  of  little  speaking,  for  Fear 
sat  upon  tongues. 

When  the  sun  was  going  down,  the  people  gath 
ered  about  the  big  chief's  tepee  where  the  fathers 
were  sitting  with  great  thoughts.  They  did  not 
smoke  nor  talk.  They  shivered  as  the  long  shadows 
crept  out  of  the  hills — yet  it  was  the  brown  hot 
time. 

And  when  it  was  dusk  a  chief  made  words  which 
were  whispers:  "Let  a  wachoobay  [holy  man] 
take  strong  weapons  and  travel  the  back  trail  till  the 
middle  of  the  night,  that  he  may  meet  the  spirit 
that  comes  and  kill  it;  for  Famine  walks  with  the 
spirit  that  comes,  and  there  shall  be  the  wailing  of 
children  and  many  flat  bellies." 

And  the  wachoobay  went  forth  with  strong 
weapons.  He  took  the  back  trail ;  he  looked  straight 
ahead.  And  the  people  stared  after  him  until  the  dark 
came  between,  as  he  walked  to  meet  the  two  comers. 

Then  the  chief's  voice  went  over  the  people  in  the 
darkness,  for  the  fires  were  not  lit;  an  enemy  was 
coming,  and  there  is  safety  in  darkness :  "  Let  him 
who  killed  come  among  us."  So  one  went  and 
brought  the  man. 

He  stood  among  the  people,  felt  but  not  seen; 
and  with  him  came  a  sobbing  that  grew  into 
words:  "  I,  Shonga  Saba,  am  here;  and  I  have 
killed.  Have  my  people  seen  a  bison  bull  stung  with 


1 84  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

a  fly  until  he  tore  the  earth  with  his  horns?  It  was 
so.  After  a  long  time  of  heat  the  storm  comes  out 
of  the  night ;  It  does  angry  deeds,  and  in  the  morning 
it  is  past.  It  was  so.  My  breast  aches.  I  struck 
my  enemy,  but  myself  I  struck  also.  Something  has 
died  within  me.  So  I  go  to  do  as  the  others  have 
done.  I  will  take  the  punishment." 

And  though  the  people  did  not  hear  nor  see  him 
go,  they  knew  that  he  was  gone.  That  night  'only 
the  children  slept. 

When  Shonga  Saba  reached  his  tepee,  he  did  that 
which  was  the  custom.  He  cut  his  hair,  he  took  off 
his  garments,  he  smeared  his  forehead  with  mud. 
Of  tears  and  dust  he  made  the  mud.  Upon  his  fore 
head  he  put  the  mark  of  his  shame. 

From  the  peak  of  his  tepee,  where  the  smoke 
comes  out,  he  tore  the  rawhide  flap.  It  was  black 
ened  with  the  smoke  of  many  fires.  About  his 
shoulders  he  bound  it;  and  it  was  the  garment  of 
his  shame. 

And  then  he  went  forth  from  the  camp.  He 
pitched  a  lonesome  tepee  without  the  circle  of  his 
people;  for  thus  he  should  live  four  summers  and 
four  winters.  It  was  the  custom. 

And  in  the  first  light  his  woman  came  to  him  with 
water  and  cooked  meat.  Also,  she  brought  moan 
ing.  Shonga  Saba  spoke  no  word  nor  looked  up. 
The  mud  of  tears  and  dust  was  upon  his  forehead, 
and  the  blackened  garment  of  shame  was  upon  his 
shoulders.  There  was  a  lump  in  his  throat;  but  the 


THE    MARK   OF    SHAME  185 

water  did  not  wash  it  away.  There  was  an  empti 
ness  in  him;  but  the  meat  did  not  fill  it.  And  when 
he  cut  the  meat,  which  was  well  cooked,  the  man 
groaned,  for  blood  ran  forth  and  made  the  food 
look  like  a  wound. 

Again  the  tribe  took  up  the  trail;  they  wanted  to 
find  the  bison,  for  there  was  little  meat.  And  the 
man  followed  at  the  distance  of  an  arrow's  flight 
behind  his  moving  people,  for  such  was  the  custom. 
But  no  thunder  of  bison  came  from  the  brown 
valleys  where  the  trail  went;  neither  was  there  any 
dust  cloud  of  pawing  hoofs.  And  the  old  women 
remembered  old-time  famines,  and  their  hands 
trembled  as  they  pitched  the  tepees  in  the  dusk  that 
ended  the  day's  toil. 

And  in  the  mornings  the  old  men  gazed  into  the 
shining  distance,  looking  from  under  their  hands 
with  eyes  that  glared  as  in  battle.  And  all  day, 
sweating  and  toiling  on  the  trail,  the  people  ate  the 
distance  with  hungry  eyes. 

Round  bellies  flattened;  for  the  evil  days  had 
come. 

And  the  man  who  had  killed  saw  all  this.  He 
too  walked  with  hunger  and  something  bigger  than 
the  food-wish.  Also  lonesomeness  was  ever  by  his 
side.  In  the  nights  he  felt  the  mark  upon  his  fore 
head  like  the  sting  of  an  angry  knife ;  and  the  smoke- 
flap  was  as  a  fire  upon  his  shoulders. 

And  one  night  he  said:  "  I  have  brought  these 
days  of  toiling  without  food  upon  my  people.  It 


1 86  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

was  for  this  that  my  mother  groaned  at  my  coming. 
I  should  have  been  the  food  of  wolves  on  that  day 
when  my  eyes  were  not  yet  open.  I  will  go  away, 
for  evil  walks  with  me,  and  my  feet  scatter  trouble 
in  the  trail.  My  woman  is  as  one  who  has  no  man, 
and  my  children  are  as  a  stranger's  children.  I  will 
walk  far  and  seek  peace  among  other  peoples, 
among  strange  hills  and  valleys." 

And  he  went  in  the  night. 

He  was  far  into  the  lonesome  places — and  it  was 
morning.  He  was  weak  with  the  night  walking,  for 
famine  had  made  him  thin.  So  he  lifted  his  face  and 
his  hands  to  the  sun.  His  palms  he  turned  to  the 
young  light  and  he  spoke  earnest  words  to  the  Spirit : 
"  Wakunda,  trouble  have  I  met,  and  trouble  have 
my  people  met  through  me.  Help  me  to  walk  in  the 
good  trail !  " 

And  as  he  said  the  words,  a  cloud  passed  across 
the  sun ;  it  was  like  a  smutch  of  mud  across  a  shining 
forehead.  The  man  who  had  killed,  groaned.  He 
hid  his  face  in  the  grass  that  he  might  not  see  the 
mark  of  his  shame.  But  as  the  day  grew  older  the 
hunger  pinched  more,  and  the  man  got  up,  set  his 
face  away  from  the  sun,  and  went  on  further  into 
the  lonesome  places.  And  in  the  evening  he  killed 
a  rabbit  with  his  bow  and  arrows.  And  as  the  rabbit 
leaped  up  at  the  sting  of  the  arrow,  it  made  a  pitiful 
sound  like  that  of  a  man  struck  deep  with  a  knife 
in  his  sleep. 

And   the   man   fled,    for   a   strange   sickness   had 


THE    MARK   OF    SHAME  187 

gripped  him.  The  mark  upon  his  forehead  burned, 
and  the  smoke-flap  was  as  a  heavy  burden  upon  his 
shoulders. 

In  the  last  light  he  found  wild  turnips  and  ate. 
They  could  not  cry  out;  they  could  not  bleed.  And 
then  sleep  came,  but  not  rest.  While  his  body  slept, 
his  spirit  killed  Ishneda  over  and  over  again.  And 
he  saw  the  first  light  with  haggard  eyes. 

And  when  he  had  eaten  again  of  the  wild  turnips 
he  said:  "I  will  go  to  the  village  of  the  Poncas; 
they  will  take  me  in,  for  I  will  speak  soft  words." 
That  day  he  travelled,  and  the  next  and  the  next. 
But  two  others  had  travelled  faster  than  he — Famine 
and  the  Story  of  his  bad  deed;  for  none  travel  so 
fast  as  these.  And  these  two  had  travelled  across 
the  prairie  together. 

And  after  much  walking,  Shonga  Saba  came  to 
the  top  of  a  hill  and  turned  hungry  eyes  upon  the 
Ponca  village  in  the  valley.  It  was  the  time  when 
the  old  day  throws  big  shadows.  He  stood  thin, 
bent  against  the  sky.  The  smoke-flap  at  his  shoul 
ders  lifted  in  the  wind  that  the  eyes  in  the  valley 
might  see. 

And  a  dead  hush  crept  over  the  village ;  the  sound 
of  children  died;  the  people  disappeared.  Full  of 
wonder  and  fear,  the  lean,  lonesome  one  walked  with 
halting  step  down  the  dry  hillside.  He  entered  the 
village,  and  it  was  as  a  place  where  all  are  dead. 

He  came  to  the  centre  of  the  village.  He  lifted 
his  palms  and  made  a  piteous  cry,  which  was  like  a 


1 88  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

dry  wind  moving  in  a  wilderness.  And  then  the 
head  of  an  old  man  was  thrust  forth  from  a  tent- 
flap,  and  from  it  came  a  husky  voice:  "  Begone,  O 
Bringer  of  Famine!  " 

And  the  man  went  forth.  His  head  was  bent, 
his  shoulders  stooped  as  with  a  weight.  He  walked 
far  and  met  the  Night.  He  lay  down  in  its  shadow. 
His  forehead  ached,  and  the  smoke-flap  was  as  a 
burning  brand.  And  in  the  darkness  he  made  a  cry: 
'' Wakunda,  very  far  have  I  walked  seeking  peace; 
but  it  has  fled  before  me.  Help  me  to  find  the  good 
trail!" 

He  was  very  tired,  and  on  a  sudden  it  was  day 
again,  and  the  dew  was  upon  him.  He  found  wild 
turnips  and  ate.  He  drank  at  a  little  creek  that  ran 
very  thin  among  dying  reeds.  Then  he  walked,  he 
knew  not  where.  But  now  and  then  he  whispered 
bitter  words  into  the  lonesome  air:  "  In  the  land  of 
the  spirits  is  peace;  there  I  would  walk,  but  I  can 
not  find  the  trail." 

The  day  was  very  hot.  The  prairie  wavered  in 
the  heat;  the  bugs  droned;  the  light  wind  sighed  in 
the  dry  grasses  like  a  thirsty  thing.  The  far  hills 
seemed  floating  in  a  lake  of  thin  oil.  They  looked 
lean  and  hungry,  yellow  as  with  a  fever;  and  upon 
their  sides  the  dry  earth  was  broken  like  old  sores. 

Into  the  heat-drone  the  man  sent  his  sighing.  His 
feet  were  heavy;  he  wished  to  die,  he  wished  to  die. 

And  when  the  day  was  past  the  highest  place,  a 
rumbling  grew  below  the  rim  of  the  earth,  like  the 


THE    MARK   OF    SHAME  189 

galloping  of  many  bison — a  sound  of  anger.  And  a 
cloud  arose,  black  and  flashing  with  fires  across  its 
front.  The  sky  was  as  an  eye  of  fever  and  the  cloud 
closed  slowly  over  it  like  a  big  eyelid. 

Then  a  hush  fell.  There  was  no  moving  of  air, 
no  droning  of  bugs.  The  prairie  held  its  breath; 
and  the  cloud  came  on.  It  moved  in  silence.  It 
threw  long,  ragged  arms  ahead  of  it,  long,  eager 
arms.  And  out  of  it  leaped  flames,  like  the  spurt 
and  sputter  of  a  wind-blown  camp  fire  in  the  night. 

And  in  the  hush  the  man  heard  strange  sounds  on 
a  sudden.  There  was  a  crying  and  a  shouting  of 
battle  cries.  He  reached  the  bald  top  of  a  hill  and 
saw  below  him  a  fighting  of  many  warriors.  Bitterly 
they  fought,  as  wolves  fight  in  hunger.  There  was 
the  lifting  and  falling  of  war  clubs,  the  shrieking  of 
arrows.  Sounds  of  horror  cut  the  big  stillness  like 
many  knives. 

And  the  man's  heart  leaped  with  joy — for  here 
was  death;  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  trail  that 
led  to  peace. 

With  a  cry  he  rushed  from  the  summit.  He  ran 
with  very  young  legs  to  meet  Death,  for  he  wished 
to  die. 

But  on  a  sudden  the  warring  bands  ceased  crying. 
The  war  clubs  were  not  lifted,  the  arrows  flew  no 
more.  On  rushed  the  thin,  bent  runner  from  the 
hilltop,  and  the  smoke-flap  flaunted  itself  behind  him. 
As  in  a  dream  the  warriors  stared  upon  the  wild 
runner.  Then  a  hoarse  shout  went  up :  "  The  Fam- 


190  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

ine  Bringer!  The  Famine  Bringer!  "  Stricken  with 
a  common  fear,  they  fled.  And  the  storm  broke 
upon  the  valley.  It  poured  down  water  and  fire  upon 
one  who  lay  there  upon  his  face.  It  roared,  it 
shrieked,  it  flamed  about  him;  but  he  moved  not. 

His  breast  ached  with  the  ache  of  the  lonesome, 
for  even  Death  had  fled  him.  And  when  the  storm 
had  passed,  the  stillness  came  back  like  a  new  pain. 
The  drenched  man  arose  and  saw  the  blood-red  sun 
slip  down  a  ridge  of  steaming  hills. 

And  near  him  lay  one  who  had  been  killed  with 
an  arrow.  The  feathers  stood  forth  from  his  breast. 
His  face  had  the  look  of  much  pain;  his  hands 
gripped  at  the  wet  grass.  And  the  lonesome  one 
looked  long  upon  the  dead  man,  thinking  deep 
thoughts.  "  Even  the  dead  have  pain,"  he  said,  "  and 
they  seek  to  hold  to  the  good  earth.  See  how  he 
clutches  it!  I  shall  live  and  follow  my  trail,  for  on 
all  trails  there  is  pain;  and  Wakunda  wishes  me  to 
live." 

So  he  dressed  himself  in  the  garments  of  the  dead 
warrior  who  needed  them  no  more.  He  threw  away 
the  smoke-flap,  and  in  a  gully  that  roared  with  rapid 
waters,  he  washed  the  smutch  from  his  forehead — 
the  mud  of  dust  and  tears.  And  he  said:  "  Now 
will  I  walk  straight  again,  for  the  marks  of  my  shame 
are  gone.  I  will  seek  the  Otoes,  and  they  will  take 


me  in." 


Is  it  not  the  way  of  a  man  to  seek  better  things? 
And  it  happened  that  in  the  village  of  the  Otoes 


THE    MARK   OF    SHAME  191 

was  much  joy  and  much  feasting.  For  the  bison  had 
come  back;  the  famine  was  ended. 

And  it  was  dark.  The  lonesome  one  sighted  the 
feast  fires  from  far  off  and  caught  the  far-blown  scent 
of  boiling  kettles.  They  had  the  home-smell.  His 
heart  was  glad  as  he  entered  the  village  and  went  in 
among  the  feast  fires.  And  they  about  the  fires  said : 
"Who  walks  in  from  the  night?"  And  Shonga 
Saba  said:  UA  lonesome  man,  one  with  many 
stories  to  tell." 

They  sat  him  down,  for  stories  are  good  with 
feasting.  And  he  told  a  story  while  the  meat  went 
round  and  the  kettles  simmered  and  the  embers 
crackled  and  went  blue.  And  as  he  told,  the  people 
gathered  close  about  to  hear.  They  leaned  forward, 
they  breathed  heavily,  they  stared.  For  his  story 
was  of  a  brave  one  who  suffered  much;  it  sounded 
true;  there  was  an  ache  in  his  words.  Also  it  had  in 
it  the  muttering  of  war  drums,  the  wails  of  women  in 
the  night,  the  snarl  of  bow  thongs,  the  beat  of  hoofs. 

But  as  the  teller  raised  his  face,  glowing  with  the 
noble  deeds  of  which  he  told,  he  saw  the  circled  mass 
of  staring  faces,  moulded  with  the  terrors  of  the  tale 
and  lit  blue  with  falling  embers. 

What  did  they  see  that  they  stared  so?  The 
mark  ! 

The  story-teller  leaped  to  his  feet.  As  a  wounded 
man  he  cried  out:  "  It  is  not  washed  away!  "  He 
threw  his  arms  across  his  forehead  and  fled  through 
the  parting  throng  into  the  night. 


192  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

And  when  he  had  run  far  from  something  that 
followed  yet  made  no  sound,  he  cast  himself  down 
on  the  prairie  and  cried  to  the  Spirit:  "  Wakunda, 
with  water  I  washed  it  away,  but  it  is  not  gone !  Am 
I  a  wolf  to  howl  always  in  the  wilderness?  I  have 
the  ache  for  home.  I  wish  to  hear  laughter  and  be 
clean.  Help  me  to  find  the  trail !  " 

All  night  his  words  felt  about  in  the  dark  for 
Wakunda. 

The  next  day  his  wanderings  began  anew.  And 
after  many  sunlights  the  first  frost  gripped  the  prai 
rie,  and  the  snows  came.  More  and  more  the  lone 
some  one  thought  of  the  fires  of  his  people.  Through 
the  shivering  nights  the  tang  of  the  home-smoke 
filled  his  nostrils;  and  day  by  day  the  home-ache 
grew. 

So  his  weary  feet  followed  his  longing,  and  the 
trail  led  home.  But  there  was  no  greeting.  In  an 
empty  lodge  without  the  village  he  made  a  fire  that 
held  the  winter  off  but  left  him  shivering.  And  once 
again  his  woman  came  with  sobbing  and  a  downcast 
face,  bringing  water  and  meat.  He  ate  and  drank, 
yet  thirst  and  hunger  stayed.  In  the  nights  he  looked 
wistfully  upon  the  fires  of  his  people  burning  little 
days  out  of  the  darkness.  He  wished  to  be  beside 
them  and  hear  the  laughter,  for  the  famine  had 
passed,  and  there  was  joy. 

And  often  by  day,  Seha,  the  brother  of  the  man 
who  was  killed,  came  with  taunting  and  words  that 
wounded  as  a  whip-thong.  But  the  lonesome  one 


THE    MARK  OF   SHAME  193 

made  no  answer,  for  having  suffered  much,  he  was 
wise.  And  this  was  against  the  law  of  the  fathers; 
so  it  happened  one  day  that  Seha  was  bound  to  a 
post  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  and  the  whippers 
were  there  with  elkhorn  whips  to  punish  Seha. 

Then  was  a  strange  deed  done,  which  even  yet  the 
old  men  tell  of  to  the  youths.  From  his  lodge  ran 
the  lonesome  one  and  stood  before  the  whippers. 
The  long  silence  he  broke  with  words :  "  Spare  Seha 
and  bind  me  to  the  post,  for  mine  was  the  bad  deed. 
I  have  suffered  much  and  now  I  can  see." 

And  the  old  fathers,  who  were  wise,  said:  "  Let 
it  be  as  the  man  says."  And  it  was  done.  The  lone 
some  one  was  bound  to  the  post  and  took  the  lashes 
on  his  back.  He  made  no  cry,  nor  was  there  any 
wincing  of  his  face.  And  it  happened  that  in  his 
pain  he  sought  out  the  face  of  Seha  in  the  throng. 
It  was  no  longer  hard  with  hate. 

And  then,  suddenly,  as  the  whips  hissed  about  him, 
a  light  went  across  the  face  of  the  lonesome  one — a 
strange,  bright  light.  And  seeing  this,  the  arms  of 
the  whippers  faltered,  for  it  was  very  strange. 

Then  in  the  silence  that  fell,  the  man  raised  a  soft 
voice:  "At  last  the  mark  has  left  me!  Bring  my 
children  to  look  upon  me,  and  let  my  woman  sing! 
I  have  found  peace;  for  the  mark  of  tears  and  dust 
is  gone — I  know  not  how." 


XIII 
THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS 

HE  could  never  be  a  strong  waschusha 
(brave).  When  he  was  born  he  was  no 
bigger  than  a  baby  coyote  littered  in  a  ter 
rible  winter  after  a  summer  of  famine!  That  was 
what  the  braves  said  as  they  sat  in  a  circle  about  the 
fires;  and  often  one  would  catch  him,  spanning  his 
little  brown  legs  with  a  contemptuous  forefinger  and 
thumb,  while  the  others  made  much  loud  mirth  over 
this  bronze  mite  who  could  never  be  a  brave. 

Then  the  object  of  their  mirth  would  pull  away 
from  his  tormentors,  displaying  his  teeth  with  a 
whimper  that  was  half  a  growl,  and  would  slink 
away  into  the  shades  where  the  firelight  did  not 
reach.  Whereupon  the  braves  would  call  after  him 
in  their  good-natured  cruelty:  "  Mixa  Zhinga  1 
Mixa  Zhinga!  "  (Little  Wolf). 

So,  in  accordance  with  certain  infallible  psychic 
laws,  Little  Wolf  became  what  he  was  considered, 
and  fulfilled  his  wild  name  to  the  letter. 

One  day  in  one  of  his  most  vulpine  moods,  while 
trotting  among  the  hills  on  all  fours,  stopping  now 
and  then  to  sit  upon  his  haunches  and  give  forth  a 
series  of  howls  in  imitation  of  his  namesakes,  he  had 
discovered  a  deserted  wolf's  hole  in  the  hillside,  of 

194 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS    195 

which  he  immediately  made  himself  the  growling 
possessor. 

To  make  this  play  metempsychosis  the  more  real, 
he  had  spirited  from  the  tepee  of  his  father  a  com 
plete  wolf's  hide,  clad  in  which  he  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  prowling  about  among  the  hills  with 
an  intense  wolfish  hate  for  all  humankind  gnawing 
at  his  heart. 

One  summer  evening  Little  Wolf,  sitting  upon  the 
top  of  the  hill,  gazed  down  upon  the  circle  of 
tepees  which  was  the  village  of  his  people.  As  he 
looked,  the  silent  vow  he  had  taken,  never  to  go  back 
to  his  tribe  again,  but  to  be  a  wolf  with  the  wolves, 
slowly  became  shapeless,  then  indistinct,  then  it  van 
ished  altogether.  For  the  smoke,  rising  slowly  from 
the  various  fires,  told  a  bewitching  tale  of  supper  to 
his  eyes;  and  the  light  wind  brought  to  his  keen 
nostrils  the  scent  of  boiling  kettles,  which  acted  as  a 
sort  of  footnote  to  the  tale  of  the  smoke,  finally 
clinching  the  argument  of  the  text ! 

So  the  little  wolf  fell  from  his  high  resolve  as  the 
wolf  skin  fell  from  his  back,  and  he  forthwith  trotted 
down  the  hillside,  at  every  step  degenerating,  as  he 
thought,  into  just  a  common  zhinga  zhinga  (baby). 

Having  cautiously  approached  a  fire,  Little  Wolf 
sat  upon  the  ground  with  his  knees  huddled  up  to  his 
chin,  and  watched  the  deft  hands  of  the  women  tend 
ing  the  baking  of  the  squaw  corn  cakes  and  the 
yellow  watuh  (pumpkin)  in  the  embers. 

The  old  women,  their  backs  bent  with  their  loads, 


196  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

carried  bundles  of  faggots  from  a  thicket  near  by  and 
placed  them  upon  the  fires,  that  flared  up  with  a 
sound  like  the  wind's,  making  a  small  circular  day 
amid  the  gathering  shadows.  The  air  was  pleasant 
with  the  scent  of  boiling  kettles,  some  filled  with  the 
meat  of  the  tae  or  the  tachuga  (bison  and  antelope)  ; 
some  ebullient  with  the  savoury  zhew  munka,  the  tea 
of  the  prairie.  And  as  Little  Wolf  sat  and  looked 
upon  the  suggestive  scene,  a  great  wave  of  sympa 
thetic  kindness  passed  through  his  small  body. 

And  especially  did  the  wolfishness  of  his  little 
heart  melt  into  an  indefinite  feeling  of  love  for  hu 
manity  as  his  eyes  followed  the  form  of  the  maiden 
Hinnagi  as  she  bustled  with  her  mother  about  the 
kettles.  Already  in  his  childish  mind  he  was  wield 
ing  the  stone  axe  with  mighty  force  in  some  mys 
terious  battle  among  the  hills;  and  it  was  all  for  her. 
His  eyes  grew  big  with  the  dream  he  was  dreaming. 
He  stared  into  the  fire  as  he  thought  the  thoughts  of 
ambitious  youth. 

The  flame  fell  and  crept  into  the  embers.  Then 
reality  came  back  as  the  shadows  came.  Something 
of  the  wonted  wolfishness  tugged  at  his  heart  as  he 
thought  of  what  the  braves  had  said.  He  could 
never  be  a  strong  brave !  With  an  awful  bitterness 
this  thought  grew  upon  him,  and  even  a  full  stomach 
could  not  quite  ease  the  pang. 

After  the  evening  meal  the  war  drums  were 
brought  into  the  open  space  about  which  the  tepees 
were  built.  For  upon  the  morrow  the  entire  band 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS    197 

of  the  tribe's  warriors  would  go  out  against  their 
enemies,  the  Sioux,  and  to-night  they  would  dance 
the  war  dance  that  their  courage  might  not  fail. 

The  drums  were  placed  in  a  small  circle;  before 
each  an  old  man,  who  had  seen  many  battles  ere  the 
eagle  glance  faded  from  his  eye,  sat  cross-legged, 
holding  a  drumstick  in  either  hand.  About  these 
the  braves  gathered  in  a  larger  circle.  The  yellow 
and  red  light  of  the  boisterous  camp  fires  made  more 
terrible  their  faces  fierce  with  the  war  paint. 

In  another  circle  at  some  distance  from  that  of 
the  braves,  awaited  the  women,  dressed  in  their 
brightest  garments  of  dyed  buckskin.  At  a  signal 
from  the  head  chief  of  the  tribe,  the  snarling  thun 
der  of  the  war  drums  began.  The  two  motionless 
circles  suddenly  became  two  rings  of  gyrating  colour. 
The  beaded  moccasins  twinkled  like  a  chain  of  satel 
lites  swinging  about  the  faggot  fire  for  a  sun.  The 
shout  of  the  braves  arose  above  the  cadence  of  the 
drum  beats,  and  the  monotonous  song  of  the  women 
grew  like  a  night  wind  in  a  lonesome  valley. 

Tum-tum-um-um,  tum-tum-um-um,  went  the 
drums,  ever  faster,  ever  louder,  inciting  the  dancers 
to  delirious  fury.  The  neglected  fires  dwindled  into 
embers.  The  shout  of  the  braves  and  the  droning 
of  the  women  ceased.  Darkness  fell  upon  the  cir 
cles.  The  dancers  moved  swiftly  through  the  dusk 
like  ghosts  in  a  midnight  orgy.  There  was  no  sound 
save  the  snarling  beat  of  the  drums  and  the  shuffle 
of  wild  feet. 


198  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

Then  the  moon,  big-eyed  with  wonder,  arose 
above  the  hills,  pouring  a  weird  light  upon  the  dance. 
Little  Wolf,  who  had  been  huddling  closely  against 
a  tepee  with  an  unintelligible  fear,  now  felt  the  de 
lirium  of  the  dance  for  the  first  time.  He  leaped  to 
his  feet  with  a  shout  that  echoed  strange  and  hoarse 
from  the  hills!  The  whole  village,  as  if  awakened 
from  the  spell,  caught  up  the  cry  and  sent  it  trembling 
up  the  gulches! 

With  the  hot  blood  pounding  at  his  temples,  Little 
Wolf  swung  into  the  frenzy  of  the  dance.  He 
leaped  like  the  antelope  when  it  catches  the  scent 
of  the  hunter.  He  was  no  longer  the  zhinga  zhlnga 
who  could  never  be  a  brave.  The  fanaticism  of  the 
savage  was  upon  him.  With  his  head  thrown  back 
until  it  caught  the  full  glare  of  the  moon,  he  danced. 
It  was  not  a  child's  face  that  the  pale  light  struck; 
it  was  the  face  of  a  fiend!  The  unfettered  wind  of 
the  prairie  was  in  his  lungs!  The  swiftness  of  the 
elk  was  in  his  feet !  He  danced  until  the  hills  danced 
about  him  in  a  dance  of  their  own.  He  danced  until 
the  moon  reeled  like  a  sick  man!  He  danced  until 
his  chest  felt  crushed  as  with  the  hug  of  a  grizzly! 
He  danced  until  the  stars  and  the  moon  went  out, 
and  there  was  nothing  but  darkness  and  a  deep,  deep 
oppressive  something,  like  and  unlike  slumber,  upon 
him!  The  sun  was  far  up  in  the  heavens  when  he 
awoke  lying  upon  the  ground  where  he  had  fallen  with 
fatigue.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  stared  about  him; 
the  circles  of  the  dance  had  vanished;  the  war  drums 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS    199 

were  still.  The  warriors  had  ridden  out  of  the 
village  into  the  mysterious  region  beyond  the  hills 
where  great  deeds  awaited  to  be  done.  Only  the 
women  and  the  children  and  the  old  men  remained  in 
the  village. 

Then  there  came  upon  Little  Wolf  that  over 
powering  thought  of  bitterness.  He  was  only  a 
zhlnga  zhinga;  he  could  never  be  a  brave.  No,  but 
he  would  be  a  wolf !  He  would  live  in  howling  lone 
liness  among  the  hills ! 

Yet  that  day  as  he  prowled  about,  clad  in  his 
wolf  skin,  he  was  conscious  of  not  being  half  so 
good  a  wolf  as  he  had  been  the  day  before.  He  did 
not  find  it  quite  within  his  power  to  hate  his  people 
with  whom  he  had  felt  the  delirium  of  the  war  dance. 
The  snarling  beat  of  the  war  drums  had  awakened 
in  him  a  vital  interest  in  the  great  prairie  tragedy  of 
food-getting  and  war-making. 

Several  days  passed,  and  the  warriors  had  not  re 
turned.  Little  Wolf  was  sitting  beside  the  deserted 
hole  which  was  his  den,  thinking  great  thoughts  of 
the  future  as  he  basked  in  the  horizontal  glare  of  the 
evening  sun.  As  he  looked  with  half-shut  eyes  across 
the  hills,  his  dreaming  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the 
sight  of  what  seemed  a  number  of  bunches  of  grass 
moving  along  the  brow  of  the  hill  on  the  other  side 
of  the  valley  in  which  the  village  lay.  As  he  looked 
and  wondered  at  this  fantastic  dance  of  the  grasses, 
there  was  a  wild  shout  from  the  opposite  hill,  and  a 
small  band  of  Otoes,  their  heads  covered  with  grass 


200  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

that  they  might  the  more  easily  creep  upon  their 
foes,  rushed  down  the  hillside  toward  the  defenceless 
village. 

Terrified  by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack,  Little 
Wolf  scampered  into  his  hole  like  any  other  little 
wolf,  and  crouched  in  the  darkness  shivering  with 
fear.  Some  time  passed,  during  which  he  could  hear 
the  wail  of  the  women  and  the  victorious  cries  of  the 
Otoes;  then  the  noises  ceased.  With  a  great  pang 
of  remorse,  the  consciousness  of  his  cowardice  came 
upon  Little  Wolf.  He  had  crawled  into  a  hole  like 
a  badger ! 

Then  he  thought  of  Hinnagi. 

He  crawled  out  of  the  hole  and  ran  down  the  hill 
into  the  village  with  his  wolf  skin  still  upon  him. 
There  amid  the  tepees  he  saw  the  bodies  of  some 
of  the  old  men  who  had  attempted  resistance,  but  the 
time  of  their  strength  was  passed. 

"Hinnagi!  Hinnagi !  "  called  Little  Wolf.  He 
listened,  and  heard  only  the  wail  of  the  women  from 
the  lodges. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Otoes  to  carry  off  the 
fairest  daughters  of  the  enemy  as  the  spoil  of  war. 
Little  Wolf  thought  of  this  with  a  great  pang  at  his 
heart.  A  great  indefinite  resolve  of  heroism  came 
upon  him.  He  ran  out  of  the  village  and  down  the 
valley,  keeping  the  trail  of  the  enemy.  When  he 
had  gone  some  distance,  he  came  upon  some  ponies 
that  the  Otoes  had  abandoned  for  the  fresher  ones 
from  the  herds  of  the  Omahas. 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS    201 

Catching  one  of  these,  weary  with  a  long  trail,  he 
mounted  it  and  turned  its  head  down  the  trail  of  the 
Otoes,  urging  its  weary  limbs  into  a  gallop  by  plying 
his  heels  upon  its  ribs. 

The  shades  of  the  valley  crept  slowly  up  the  hills 
and  the  golden  glow  faded  from  the  summits.  Little 
Wolf  still  urged  the  stumbling  pony  through  the 
darkness.  As  he  rode,  the  frenzy  that  he  had  felt 
in  the  war  dance  rushed  through  him.  His  temples 
beat  and  his  heart  throbbed  to  the  time  of  the  snarl 
ing  drums.  To  him  the  night  breeze  seemed  heavy 
with  noble  deeds  awaiting  to  be  given  life  and  voices 
of  thunder  for  the  ears  of  men. 

He  felt  that  in  some  indefinite  way  he  would  now 
become  a  strong  waschusha!  The  Otoes  had  stolen 
the  ponies  and  the  women;  ah,  that  included  Hin- 
nagi !  He  would  save  them ;  little  did  he  know  how, 
yet  he  felt  that  he  would  save  them.  Then  the 
braves  would  not  laugh  at  him  any  more,  but  would 
let  him  ride  to  battle  with  them.  And  maybe  some 
time  Hinnagi  would  be  his  squaw! 

Suddenly  rounding  the  base  of  a  hill,  the  pony 
stopped  short  and  pricked  up  its  ears,  sniffing  the 
wind  that  came  up  the  gulch.  Little  Wolf,  aroused 
from  his  musing,  soon  understood  the  abruptness  of 
the  pony.  He  smelled  smoke!  Slipping  to  the 
ground  he  crawled  on  his  hands  and  knees  up  the 
gulch  in  the  direction  from  which  the  scent  of 
the  smoke  came. 

Soon  he  reached  the  end  of  the  gulch  and,  looking 


202  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

into  a  small  valley,  he  saw  through  the  gloom  a 
number  of  rudely  constructed  tepees.  Breathlessly 
he  listened.  For  awhile  there  was  no  sound  except 
the  crackling  of  the  low  fires  and  the  flap  of  the 
blankets  about  the  poles.  Then  as  he  listened,  there 
came  to  his  ears  a  low,  mournful  wail  as  of  a  night 
wind  in  the  scrub  oaks  of  a  bluff. 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  the  Otoes  slept 
soundly,  Little  Wolf  crawled  in  the  direction  of  the 
wail  and  disappeared  in  the  gloom. 

Some  moments  afterward,  an  Otoe  brave  suddenly 
awoke  from  his  heavy  slumber.  In  the  weird  glow 
of  the  falling  fire  he  beheld  at  the  entrance  of  his 
tepee  a  grey  wolf  standing  motionless. 

The  brave  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  uttering 
a  grunt  of  terror  as- of  one  who  feels  a  nightmare 
and  would  cry  out  were  not  his  tongue  frozen  in 
his  mouth. 

The  wolf  with  a  startled  movement  whispered 
hoarsely  in  the  Omaha  tongue :  "  The  Omahas ! 
They  are  coming!  Fly!  Fly!" 

The  Otoe  brave  leaped  to  his  feet,  every  limb 
growing  cold  with  fright.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
stared  at  the  darkness.  The  wolf  had  vanished. 

Now  an  Indian  believes  weird  things,  and  the 
warning  of  a  talking  wolf  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
despised  even  though  it  were  only  dreamed.  So  the 
Otoe  brave  gave  a  shout  that  rang  up  the  gulch  and 
made  the  grazing  ponies  snort  and  tug  at  their 
lariats. 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS    203 

Soon  the  entire  band  was  rushing  about  the  camp. 

"The  Omahas!  They  are  coming!"  cried  the 
startled  brave.  "Fly!  Fly!  For  lo,  a  grey  wolf 
came  to  my  tepee  and  spoke  to  me  in  a  dream !  " 

"Fly!  Fly!"  echoed  the  whole  band,  delirious 
with  fear.  "  Kill  the  squaws!  "  they  shouted;  for  in 
their  flight  they  could  not  be  burdened  with  their 
spoils,  and  they  would  not  leave  them  to  their 
enemies. 

There  was  the  sound  of  the  shrieks  of  women; 
then  the  galloping  of  hoofs;  then  silence. 

Two  days  afterward  the  Omahas,  having  returned 
to  their  stricken  village,  made  the  trail  of  the  fleeing 
Otoes  thunderous  with  pursuing  hoofs.  Suddenly 
topping  the  hill  that  overlooked  the  deserted  camp 
of  their  enemies,  they  beheld  the  bodies  of  the  slain 
women  strewn  amid  the  tepees.  Over  one  of  these 
a  grey  wolf  stood. 

There  was  a  shout  from  the  foremost  of  the 
Omaha  warriors,  and  a  dozen  arrows  sang  in  the 
air  and  quivered  in  the  body  of  the  wolf.  It  rolled 
upon  its  side  with  a  cry  half  human ! 

A  group  of  braves,  riding  up  to  the  corpse  of  the 
woman,  pulled  the  blanket  from  its  face. 

It  was  Hinnagi! 

With  a  savage  kick  one  turned  the  still  quivering 
body  of  the  wolf  upon  its  back.  The  grey  hide  fell 
from  an  emaciated  brown  face,  twitching  with  the 
agony  of  death. 

It  was  Little  Wolf! 


XIV 
DREAMS   ARE   WISER   THAN   MEN 

RUN  WALKER  lay  upon  the  brown  grass 
without  the  circle  of  the  village;  and  it  was 
the  time  when  the  maize  is  gathered — the 
brown,  drear  time.     He  lay  with  ear  pressed  to  the 
earth. 

'What  are  you  doing?"  asked  one  who  walked 
there. 

"I?"  said  Rain  Walker;  and  his  eyes  and  face 
were  not  good  to  see  as  he  raised  his  head.  The 
dying  time  seemed  also  in  his  face.  "  The  growers 
are  coming  up,  and  I  am  listening  to  their  breath 
ing,"  he  said. 

And  the  questioner  walked  on  with  a  strange 
smile;  for  it  was  not  the  time  of  the  coming  of  the 
growers. 

Rain  Walker  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  village  and 
held  his  face  to  the  sky. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  said  one  who  walked 
there. 

"I?"  and  there  was  twilight  in  Rain  Walker's 
eyes  as  he  looked  upon  the  questioner.  "  I  shot  an 
arrow  into  the  air.  It  did  not  come  back,  so  I  am 
always  looking  for  it." 

And  the  questioner  smiled  and  went  on  walking; 
204 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     205 

for  no  arrow  rises  that  does  not  fall.  A  child  knows 
that. 

And  the  people  said:  "It  is  all  because  Mad 
Buffalo,  the  Ponca,  took  his  squaw.  He  took  her, 
and  she  went.  It  was  after  the  summer's  feasting 
and  talking  together  that  she  went.  Rain  Walker 
is  not  forgetting." 

And  Rain  Walker  sat  much  alone;  he  sat  much 
alone  making  strange  songs  not  pleasant  to  hear. 
And  as  he  made  songs  he  made  weapons.  He  fash 
ioned  him  a  man-dc-hi,  which  is  a  long  spear,  tipped 
with  sharp  flint;  and  he  sang.  He  wrought  a  za-zi- 
man-di,  which  is  a  great  bow;  and  sang  all  the  time. 
They  were  hate  songs  that  he  sang;  they  snarled. 

He  shaped  many  arrows;  he  headed  them  with 
sharp  flints  and  tipped  them  with  the  feathers  of  the 
hawk;  and  all  the  time  he  sang.  He  made  a  we-ak- 
ga-di,  which  is  an  ugly  club.  He  sang  to  himself 
and  to  the  weapons  that  he  made.  To  the  harsh, 
snarling  airs  he  wrought  the  weapons.  The  songs 
went  into  them,  and  they  looked  like  things  that 
might  hate  much. 

And  one  drew  near  who  was  walking.  "  Why  do 
you  make  war  things?  "  said  he. 

"I?"  and  Rain  Walker  threw  himself  upon  his 
stomach,  writhing  toward  the  questioner  like  a  big 
snake.  "  I  am  a  rattlesnake/'  he  said,  "  hiss-ss-ss-s ! 
go  away !  I  sting !  " 

And  the  man  went,  for  it  is  not  good  to  see  a  man 
act  like  a  snake. 


206  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

And  one  night  the  weapons  were  finished.  All 
that  night  the  people  heard  the  voice  of  Rain  Walker 
singing.  They  said:  "Those  are  the  songs  of  one 
who  wishes  to  go  on  the  warpath  I  " 

And  in  the  morning  Rain  Walker  came  out  of  his 
lodge.  The  squaws  trembled  to  see  him;  and  the 
men  wondered.  For  he  had  wept  and  his  eyes  were 
pale.  Well  did  the  men  know  that  he  who  weeps  in 
hate  is  not  a  child. 

And  Rain  Walker  raised  a  hoarse  voice  into  the 
morning  stillness  before  all  the  people:  ;' Where  is 
my  woman — she  who  cooked  for  me  and  made  my 
lodge  pleasant?  Tell  me;  for  I  walk  there  that  the 
crows  may  eat  me !  " 

The  people  shivered  as  though  his  voice  were  the 
breath  of  the  first  frost. 

"  You  need  not  make  words,  my  kinsmen;  I  know. 
I  walk  there  and  the  crows  shall  eat  me." 

He  went  forth  from  the  door  of  his  lodge  and 
came  to  the  place  where  the  head  chief  lived  among 
the  Hungas.  He  raised  the  door  flap.  "  A-ho !  " 
said  he,  for  the  chief  was  within  eating.  "  I, 
Rain  Walker,  stand  before  you.  I  have  words  to 
give." 

"  Speak,  "  said  the  chief. 

"  I  am  wronged.  I  wish  war!  I  wish  to  see  the 
Poncas  destroyed !  " 

The  head  chief  gazed  long  into  the  tear-washed 
eyes  of  Rain  Walker,  and  he  said :  "  It  is  a  big  thing 
to  take  that  trail.  It  means  the  wailing  of  women; 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     207 

it  means  hunger;  it  means  the  crying  of  zhinga 
zhingas  for  fathers  that  lie  in  lonesome  places  and 
never  ride  back.  It  is  a  hard  path  to  take.  I  will 
think." 

And  it  happened  after  the  thinking  of  the  big  chief 
that  a  council  was  called — a  coming-together  of  the 
leaders  of  the  bands. 

And  the  leaders  came  together,  and  sat  with  big 
thoughts.  It  was  evening,  and  among  the  assembled 
leaders  sat  Rain  Walker.  His  face  was  thin  and 
cruel  as  a  stone  axe  stained  with  blood. 

Then  the  big  chief  raised  his  voice,  and  words  to 
be  heard  grew  there  in  the  big  lodge.  "  This  man 
who  sits  with  us  has  been  wronged.  When  our 
brothers,  the  Poncas,  were  among  us  for  the  feasting 
and  the  talking  together,  Mad  Buffalo  was  among 
them. 

"  A  woman  is  a  thing  not  to  be  understood.  Now 
she  dies  on  long  winter  trails  for  a  man,  or  grows 
old  and  wrinkled  suckling  his  zhinga  zhingas;  and 
now  she  leaves  him  for  another;  yet  it  is  the  same 
woman.  I  knew  a  wise  man  once ;  but  he  shook  his 
head  about  these  things;  and  so  do  I. 

"  You  know  of  whom  I  speak.  It  was  Sun  Eyes; 
and  she  was  this  man's  woman.  Mad  Buffalo  smiled, 
and  she  went  with  him." 

Rain  Walker's  breath,  that  hissed  through  his 
teeth,  filled  up  the  silence  that  followed.  His  face 
was  thin  and  sharp  and  eager,  even  as  the  barbed 
head  of  a  war  arrow. 


208  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  And  this  man  has  come  to  me  crying  for  war," 
continued  the  head  chief.  "  Think  hard,  and  let  us 
talk  together." 

And  he  of  the  Big  Elk  band  said:  "  Let  the 
Poncas  come  down  in  the  night  and  drive  away  our 
ponies,  and  I  will  gather  my  band  about  me.  But 
it  has  not  been  so." 

And  he  of  the  Hawk  band  said:  "Let  the 
Poncas  destroy  our  gardens,  and  I  will  think  of  my 
weapons." 

And  he  of  the  No-Teeth  band  said:  "Let  the 
Poncas  speak  ill  of  us,  and  my  band  will  put  on  the 
war  paint." 

Then  a  silence  grew  and  the  head  chief  filled  it 
with  few  words.  "Let  us  pass  the  pipe;  and  all 
who  smoke  it  smoke  for  war." 

And  there  were  ten  chiefs  in  the  council,  sitting 
in  a  circle.  The  first  touched  the  pipe  lightly  and 
passed  it  on  as  though  it  burned  his  fingers;  and  so 
the  second  and  third,  even  to  the  tenth.  And  next 
to  him  sat  Rain  Walker.  His  breath  came  drily 
through  his  teeth,  like  a  hot  wind  in  a  parched  gulch. 
With  hands  that  trembled  he  grasped  the  pipe  from 
the  tenth,  who  had  not  placed  it  to  his  lips.  Rain 
Walker  placed  it  to  his  lips  nervously,  eagerly,  as 
one  who  touches  a  cool  water  bowl  after  a  long 
thirst.  He  struck  a  flint  and  lit  it.  Then  he  arose 
to  his  feet,  tall,  straight,  trembling — a  Rage  grown 
into  a  man ! 

"I  smoke!  "  he  cried;  "  I  smoke,  and  through  all 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     209 

the  sunlights  that  come  I  shall  walk  alone  and  kill! 
The  lonesome  walker — I  am  he! 

"  I  shall  speak  to  the  snake,  and  he  shall  teach  me 
his  creeping  and  his  stinging.  I  shall  speak  to  the 
elk,  and  he  shall  teach  me  his  fleetness,  his  strength 
that  lasts,  his  fury  when  he  turns  to  fight.  And  I 
shall  speak  to  the  hawk  and  learn  the  keenness  of  his 
eyes !  " 

Rain  Walker  puffed  blue  streamers  of  smoke  into 
the  still  twilight  of  the  lodge,  seeming  something 
more  than  man  in  the  fog  he  made. 

"I  smoke!"  he  cried;  and  his  cry  had  changed 
into  a  song  of  snarling  sounds  and  sounds  that  wailed. 
"  I  smoke,  and  I  smoke  alone ;  my  brothers  will  not 
take  the  pipe  with  me.  In  lonesome  places  shall  I 
walk  with  my  hate,  and  not  even  the  lone  hawk  in 
the  furthest  hills  shall  hear  me  make  aught  but  a 
hate  cry.  I  have  no  longer  any  people!  I  am  a 
tribe — the  tribe  that  walks  alone !  The  zhinga 
zhingas  of  the  women  that  are  not  yet  born  shall 
hear  my  name,  and  it  shall  be  like  a  nightwind  wail 
ing  when  the  spirits  walk  and  the  fires  are  blue !  I 
will  forget  that  I  am  the  son  of  a  woman;  I  will 
think  myself  the  son  of  a  snake,  that  bore  me  on 
a  hot  rock  in  a  lonesome  place.  I  will  think  that  I 
never  tasted  woman's  milk,  but  only  venom  stewed 
by  the  hot  sun.  And  now  I  walk  alone." 

His  cry  had  fallen  to  a  low  wail  that  made  the 
flesh  of  the  hearers  creep,  although  they  were  leaders 
and  brave.  And  with  eyes  that  peered  far  ahead  as 


210          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

into  impenetrable  distances  Rain  Walker  strode  out 
of  the  lodge.  The  night  was  coming;  he  went  forth 
to  meet  it,  walking. 

As  he  walked  toward  the  night  his  thoughts  were 
of  choobay  (holy)  things.  He  thought  much  of  the 
spirits,  and  he  reached  a  high  hill  as  he  walked.  It 
was  high;  therefore  it  was  a  choobay  place.  And  he 
climbed  to  the  summit,  bare  of  grass  and  white  with 
flaked  rocks  against  the  sky,  that  darkened  fast  as 
the  Night  walked. 

Then  he  lit  his  pipe  and  made  choobay  smoke. 
He  wished  to  have  the  good  wakundas  with  him, 
even  though  he  walked  alone.  For  well  he  knew 
that  no  man  can  walk  quite  alone.  So  he  extended 
the  pipe  stem  to  the  west,  the  south,  the  east,  the 
north,  and  he  cried,  "  O  you  who  cause  the  four 
winds  to  reach  a  place,  help  me!  I  stand  needy!  " 
Then  he  extended  the  pipe  stem  toward  the  earth, 
and  he  said,  "  O  Venerable  Man  who  lives  at  the 
bottom,  here  I  stand  needy!  "  And  to  the  heavens 
he  held  the  stem  and  cried,  "  O  Grandfather  who 
lives  above^  I  stand  needy;  I,  Rain  Walker!  Though 
my  brothers  treat  me  badly,  yet  I  think  you  will 
help  me !  " 

And  he  felt  much  stronger. 

Then,  with  his  weapons  about  him,  he  set  his  face 
to  the  south,  for  there  in  the  flat  lands  of  Nebraska 
lay  the  village  of  the  Poncas. 

And  he  walked  in  lonesome  places  all  night.  A 
coyote  trotted  past  him  and  sat  at  some  distance. 
"  O  brother  Coyote,"  said  Rain  Walker,  "  I  am  on 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     211 

the  warpath;  teach  me  your  long  running  and  your 
snapping !  "  The  coyote  whined  and  went  into  a 
gulch. 

"  I  walk  alone,  and  none  relieve  my  sorrow !  " 

So *sang  Rain  Walker;  and  singing  thus  he  walked 
into  the  morning.  And  the  prairie  was  grey  with 
frost  and  very  big,  and  the  skies  were  filled  with  a 
quiet,  so  that  a  far  crow  cawing  faintly  made  a  shout. 
Having  nothing  to  eat  he  sang,  and  hunger  went 
away.  His  song  filled  the  world,  for  he  walked 
alone  where  it  was  very  silent. 

To  the  hawk  he  cried  for  keenness  of  eyes;  but 
the  hawk  circled  on  and  was  only  a  speck.  Nothing 
heard  the  man  who  walked  alone. 

He  killed  a  rabbit  and  ate ;  he  found  a  stream  and 
drank.  Then  he  met  the  Night  walking  again,  and 
they  walked  together  until  they  met  the  Day;  and  the 
man  saw  below  him  in  the  flat  lands  of  Nebraska  the 
jumbled  mud  village  of  the  Poncas. 

And  it  happened  that  the  people  in  the  village 
were  moving  very  early.  There  was  a  neighing  of 
ponies  and  a  shouting  of  men  and  a  scolding  and 
laughing  of  women.  It  was  the  time  of  the  bison 
hunt,  and  they  were  going  forth  that  day. 

Rain  Walker  lay  in  the  brown  grass  at  the  hilltop 
and  watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  merry  ones  as  the 
long,  thin  file  left  the  village,  the  riders  and  the 
walkers  and  the  drags.  It  is  pleasant  to  go  on 
the  hunt.  Rain  Walker  felt  that  he  would  never 
go  again. 

His  face  softened;  then  suddenly  it  changed  and 


212  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

became  again  as  a  barbed  war  arrow.  Mad  Buffalo 
rode,  and  after  him  went  Sun  Eyes  walking!  Her 
head  hung  low  like  a  thing  wilted  by  the  frost.  She 
laughed  none;  she,  too,  seemed  as  one  who  walked 
alone. 

When  the  long,  thin  line,  like  a  huge  snake  writh 
ing  westward  into  the  hills,  had  disappeared,  Rain 
Walker  got  up  and  walked  fast.  He  walked  fast, 
for  he  wished  to  be  near  the  place  of  camping  when 
the  night  came.  And  it  was  so. 

He  lay  at  a  distance,  watching  the  fires  flare  into 
the  night  and  feeling  very  hungry,  for  he  caught  the 
scent  of  the  boiling  kettles.  They  smelled  like  home. 
And  when  the  people  had  eaten  and  the  fires  had 
fallen,  Rain  Walker  said,  "  Now  I  will  begin  my 
war.  I  need  a  pony,  the  Poncas  have  them." 

He  crawled  upon  his  hands  and  knees  to  where  the 
herd  grazed.  There  had  been  no  watch  set,  for  all 
the  tribes  were  at  peace,  except  the  tribe  that  walked 
alone. 

And  Rain  Walker  rode  away  into  the  night.  He 
had  big  thoughts  as  he  rode. 

The  hunting  was  poor  that  year;  it  happened  so, 
they  say.  Still  toward  the  place  where  the  evening 
goes  went  the  tribe,  peering  into  far  places  for  the 
bison;  and  ever  there  was  one  who  crept  near  the 
tepees  at  night  and  heard  the  words  of  the  Poncas, 
which  are  the  same  as  the  Omahas  speak. 

And  they  wandered,  hunting,  in  the  places  where 
the  sandhills  are — the  dreary  places. 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     213 

And  one  day  it  happened,  they  say,  that  a  coyote 
and  a  hawk  and  some  crows  saw  two  men  in  a  very 
lonesome  place  among  the  sand  hills.  They  alone 
saw.  And  the  two  met,  riding.  One  was  a  Ponca 
gone  forth  to  seek  the  unappearing  herd.  He  was 
tall  and  well  made,  and  his  pony  was  spotted.  The 
other  was  also  even  as  the  first,  although  not  a 
Ponca ;  but  his  pony  was  not  spotted. 

And  when  they  met  a  great  cry  went  up  from  the 
one  whose  pony  was  not  spotted.  The  coyote  and  the 
hawk  and  the  crows  heard  and  saw.  It  seemed  a 
strange  cry  in  the  silence  that  lived  there.  Then  he 
who  rode  the  spotted  pony  turned  and  fled;  but  an 
arrow  is  swifter  than  a  pony,  though  it  be  wind- 
footed;  and  he  who  fled  fell  upon  the  sand  and  the 
pony  ran  at  some  distance  and  stopped.  He  looked 
on  also. 

And  the  two  men  met.  He  with  the  arrow  in  his 
back  arose  with  a  groan  from  the  sand  and  growled 
as  the  other  approached  and  dismounted.  They 
seemed  as  two  who  had  met  and  parted  enemies. 

They  seized  each  other  and  rolled  upon  the  sand. 
The  coyote  whined,  the  crows  cawed,  but  the 
hawk  only  watched.  But  all  the  while  the  ponies 
neighed. 

And  the  sting  of  the  arrow  weakened  one,  but  he 
fought  like  a  bear.  He  made  a  good  fight.  But  the 
other  fixed  his  hands  upon  his  enemy's  throat  until  the 
silent  places  were  filled  with  a  gurgling  and  a  rasp 
ing  of  breath  that  came  hard.  Then  there  was  only 


2i4  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

silence.  The  coyote  ran  away,  the  crows  and  the 
hawk  flew.  The  ponies  alone  watched  now. 

And  the  man  whose  pony  was  not  spotted  arose 
and  laughed  very  loud — only  it  was  not  the  laugh  of 
a  glad  man.  Then  the  man  who  laughed  stripped  off 
the  garments  of  the  other  and  put  them  upon  him 
self.  Then  he  built  a  fire  and  lit  his  pipe  and  made 
choobay  smoke.  Then  he  spoke  to  the  various  wa- 
kundas  that  were  somewhere  there  in  the  silence. 

"  I  have  killed  my  enemy.  I  will  burn  his  heart 
and  give  you  the  ashes,  O  Grandfathers!  " 

The  crows  heard  this,  for  they  had  come  back 
looking  for  their  feast. 

And  the  man  burned  the  heart  of  his  enemy  and 
scattered  the  ashes,  singing  a  brave  song  all  the 
while.  He  had  learned  to  do  this  from  the  Kansas; 
it  is  their  custom. 

Then  the  man  got  on  the  spotted  pony  and  rode 
away,  bearing  with  him  the  weapons  of  the  man  who 
stayed.  And  when  he  was  gone  the  crows  and  the 
coyote  came  and  made  harsh  noises  at  each  other,  for 
each  was  hungry,  and  there  was  a  feast  spread  there 
upon  the  sand. 

And  it  happened  that  evening,  they  say,  that  one 
rode  into  the  Ponca  camp  and  went  to  the  tepee 
where  Sun  Eyes,  the  Omaha  woman,  waited  for 
someone. 

The  man  who  came  had  his  whole  face  hidden 
with  a  piece  of  buckskin,  having  eye  and  mouth  holes 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     215 

in  it.  And  Sun  Eyes  was  cooking  over  a  fire  before 
her  tepee. 

uHo,  Mad  Buffalo!"  she  said;  "  you  have  not 
found  the  bison.  Why  have  you  hidden  your  face?  " 

"  I  found  no  bison,"  said  the  man,  "  but  I  saw 
something  in  the  hills  which  caused  me  to  hide  my 
face." 

And  Sun  Eyes  looked  keenly  at  the  man,  for  she 
thought  it  was  some  wakunda  he  had  seen. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  in  a  strange  voice?"  said 
she ;  and  she  trembled  as  she  said  it. 

"  He  who  has  seen  something  is  never  the  same 
again !  "  said  he. 

And  while  the  woman  wondered  the  two  ate 
together.  And  as  the  man  ate  he  laughed  very  pleas 
antly  at  times  like  a  man  who  is  very  glad. 

"Why  do  you  laugh,  Mad  Buffalo?"  said  the 
woman. 

"  Because  I  was  very  hungry  for  something,  and 
I  have  it  now,"  said  the  man. 

And  when  he  had  ceased  eating  he  sang  glad 
songs,  and  again  the  woman  questioned. 

"  I  sing  because  of  what  I  saw  in  the  hills," 
said  he. 

And  this  seemed  very  strange  to  the  woman.  But 
it  is  not  allowed  that  one  should  question  a  man  who 
has  seen  a  wakunda. 

And  it  happened  that  the  man  was  pleased  to 
speak  evil  words  of  Rain  Walker,  and  Sun  Eyes 
hung  her  head;  her  eyes  were  wet. 


216          THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

Then  said  the  man,  having  seen:  "  Why  do  you 
act  so?  Do  you  want  him?  Behold!  Am  I  not  as 
good  to  see  as  Rain  Walker?  " 

And  he  acted  as  one  who  is  almost  angry  and  a 
little  sad.  But  the  woman  only  sobbed  a  very  little 
sob,  for  as  the  chief  said  in  the  council,  a  very  wise 
man  does  not  know  the  ways  of  a  woman. 

And  it  happened  that  night,  they  say,  that,  as  the 
two  slept,  Sun  Eyes  dreamed  a  strange  dream  that 
made  her  cry  out.  And  the  twp  sat  up  startled. 

"  What  is  it?  "  said  the  man. 

"  A  dream !  "  sobbed  Sun  Eyes. 

"What  dream?"  said  the  man,  and  his  voice 
seemed  kind. 

"  I  cannot  tell;  I  do  not  wish  to  be  beaten." 

"Tell  it,  Sun  Eyes.  Was  it  about — Rain 
Walker?" 

She  did  not  answer;  the  man  sighed. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said.    And  she  spoke. 

"  I  dreamed  that  I  saw  my  zhinga  zhinga  that  I 
am  carrying.  And  it  was  Rain  Walker's.  It  had 
his  face,  and  it  looked  upon  me  with  hate.  It  pushed 
me  away  when  I  offered  my  breast.  It  would  take 
no  milk  from  me.  And  it  seemed  that  its  look 
pierced  me  like  a  barbed  arrow.  Thus  I  awoke,  and 
cried  out." 

The  woman  was  sobbing,  and  a  tremor  ran 
through  the  man.  She  felt  it  as  he  leaned  against 
her,  and  she  thought  it  anger. 

"  Take  me  there  where  I  came  from — to  the  vil- 


DREAMS    ARE    WISER    THAN    MEN     217 

lage  of  my  people !  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  big  and 
good  to  see,  and  many  women  will  follow  you! 
Take  me  to  my  people !  Dreams  are  wiser  than  men ; 
the  wakundas  send  them.  I  wish  to  go  back,  that 
my  child  may  smile  and  take  my  breast." 

And  the  man  rose  and  began  dressing  for  the  trail. 

"  I  will  take  you  back,"  said  he.  "  Dreams  are 
wiser  than  men." 

And  before  the  day  walked  the  two  went  forth 
on  the  long  trail,  back  to  the  village  of  the  woman's 
people. 

The  man  went  before  and  the  woman  followed, 
bearing  the  burdens  of  the  trail.  But  when  the  dawn 
came  the  man  did  a  strange  thing.  He  took  the  bur 
dens  upon  his  own  shoulders,  saying  nothing.  It 
seemed  his  heart  had  been  softened;  but  his  face 
being  hidden,  the  woman  could  not  see  what  was 
written  there. 

And  the  trail  was  long;  but  the  man  was  kind.  He 
seemed  no  longer  the  Mad  Buffalo.  He  made  fires 
and  pitched  the  tepee  like  a  squaw.  He  spoke  soft 
words. 

And  after  many  days  of  travelling  the  two  came, 
as  the  Night  was  beginning  to  walk,  to  the  brown 
brow  of  the  hill  beneath  which  lay  the  village  of  the 
Omahas. 

And  the  man  said:  "There  are  your  people. 
Go!" 

And  the  woman  moaned,  saying:  "He  will  not 
take  me,  and  the  dream  will  be  true.  Never  on  the 


218  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

long  trail  did  my  heart  fail;  but  now  I  am  weak. 
My  breast  aches." 

But  the  man  said:  "Sun  Eyes,  had  not  Rain 
Walker  ever  a  soft  heart?  He  will  take  you  back. 
Look!" 

And  the  woman,  who  had  been  gazing  through 
tears  upon  the  village  of  her  people,  turned  and  saw 
that  the  man  had  torn  the  buckskin  from  his  face. 
She  gave  a  cry  and  shrank  from  what  she  saw. 

But  the  man  took  her  gently  by  the  hand. 

u  He  will  take  you  back,"  he  said;  "  dreams  are 
wiser  than  men  1  " 


XV 
THE   SMILE   OF  GOD 

THE    Omahas    were    hunting    bison.     The 
young  moon  had  been  thin  and  bent  like  a 
bow  by  the  arm  of  a  strong  man  when  they 
had  left  their  village  in  the  valley  of  Ne  Shuga. 
Night  after  night  it  had  grown  above  their  cheerless 
tepees,    ever   further   eastward,   until   now   it   came 
forth  no  more,  but  lingered  in  its  black  lodge  like  a 
brave  who  has  walked  far  and  keeps  his  blankets 
because  the  way  was  hard  and  long. 

All  through  the  time  of  the  growing  and  dying 
moon,  the  Omahas  had  sought  for  the  bison.  Upon 
a  hundred  summits  they  had  halted  to  gaze  beneath 
the  arched  hand  into  the  lonely  valleys  from  whence 
came  no  sound  of  lowing  cows  or  bellowing  bulls. 
Like  the  voice  of  Famine  through  the  lonesome  air 
came  the  caw-caw  of  the  crow.  Like  heaps  of  bleach 
ing  bones  the  far-off  sage  brush  whitened. 

This  evening  as  the  women  busied  themselves  with 
the  building  of  the  tepees,  there  was  no  crooning  on 
their  lips.  The  valley  in  which  they  were  placing 
their  camp  was  still  but  for  the  clattering  of  the  poles, 
as  they  were  placed  in  their  conical  positions,  or  the 
flap  of  the  blankets,  which  were  being  bound  about 
the  poles  for  a  covering. 

219 


220  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

At  dreary  intervals  a  grazing  pony  would  toss  its 
weary  head  and  neigh  nervously,  as  if  wondering  at 
the  stillness  of  its  masters. 

The  silent  squaws  gathered  armfuls  of  scrub  oak 
and  plum  twigs,  and  lit  fires  that  lapped  the  blacken 
ing  air  with  ruddy  tongues  and  sent  their  voices 
roaring  up  the  hills,  to  be  answered  by  their  echoes 
that  came  back  faintly  like  the  lowing  of  a  phantom 
herd! 

The  old  men  and  the  braves  sat  about  the  fires 
and  no  word  was  on  their  lips.  From  lip  to  lip  the 
fragrant  pipe  passed,  yet  even  its  softening  influence 
could  not  move  to  speech  the  lips  it  touched.  Each 
face  upon  which  the  firelight  fell  was  hideous  with 
the  gauntness  of  hunger. 

One  by  one  the  runners,  sent  out  in  search  of  the 
herds,  came  into  camp.  With  a  slow,  swinging  trot 
these  great  lean  men  approached,  as  the  gaunt  wolf 
approaches  his  lair  in  the  cold  light  of  the  morning 
when  no  prey  has  been  abroad  all  night.  Sullen  and 
silent  they  took  their  places  in  the  cheerless  circles 
about  the  fires.  There  was  no  need  for  words  from 
them.  Their  expectant  kinsmen  looked  into  their 
faces  and  read  the  tale  of  their  despair  so  readily 
from  the  drawn  skin  and  sunken  eyes  that  they 
groaned. 

The  glow  of  the  west  fell  into  the  greyness  of 
ashes,  as  a  camp  fire  falls  when  all  the  women  sleep. 
Then  the  dark  came  over  the  eastern  hills.  Far  into 
the  night  the  braves  and  old  men  sat  about  the  fires, 


THE    SMILE   OF   GOD  221 

speechless.  As  they  listened,  they  could  hear  the 
hungry  children  whining  in  their  sleep.  Once  a 
squaw,  suddenly  awakened  from  a  dream  near  the 
fires,  leaped  to  her  feet  and  cried  "  Tae!  Tae! 
[bison] "  The  hoarse  cry  beat  against  the  black 
hills  and  came  back  like  a  mockery.  The  men  gazed 
at  each  other  and  grinned  with  twitching  lips. 

Again  the  lonesome  air  slumbered,  save  for  a 
weird  song  that  arose  from  the  tepee  of  the  big 
medicine-man,  Ashunhunga.  He  was  calling  to 
Wakunda.  The  song  droned  itself  into  silence  like 
the  song  of  a  locust  when  the  evening  is  quiet. 

After  some  time,  a  sound  of  wailing  came  from 
the  mysterious  tepee;  and  as  the  men  turned  their 
faces  to  the  place,  they  beheld  the  half-naked  form 
of  the  medicine-man  passing  like  a  spectre  amid  the 
glow  of  the  fires. 

The  dry  skin  clung  to  his  ribs  and  sinews.  His 
head  was  thrown  back  and  the  fires  lit  his  face. 
Through  his  parted  lips  the  white  teeth  shone.  Out 
of  the  hollows  of  his  eyes  a  wild  light  glared.  The 
dream  was  upon  him!  With  bony  hands  clenched, 
he  beat  his  naked  breast  and  cried:  u  Wah-hoo-ha-a! 
W ah-hoo-ha-a-a-a!  The  curse  of  Wakunda  is  upon 
us!  The  black  spirits  of  the  dead  are  about  us!  For 
Ashunhunga  had  a  dream.  A  black  spirit  came  to 
him  and  its  eyes  were  lightning  and  its  voice  was 
thunder  as  it  said :  *  Why  do  you  shelter  him  whom 
Wakunda  hates?'  Wa-hoo-ha-a-a-a!  " 

Blood  fell  from  the  mysterious  man's  palms  where 


222  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

the  nails  clenched  convulsively,  and  his  arms  and 
breast  were  smeared  with  blood.  The  listeners  shud 
dered  as  the  wild  voice  began  anew. 

"Ashunhunga  will  talk  to  the  black  spirit!  He 
will  learn  whom  Wakunda  hates !  Him  we  shall  cast 
from  us !  Then  Wakunda  will  smile  and  the  valleys 
shall  thunder  with  herds!  " 

Beating  his  breast  and  gesticulating  wildly  with  his 
long,  bony  arms,  the  old  man  passed  back  amid  the 
tepees. 

Those  who  sat  about  the  fires  were  frozen  by  the 
wild  words  into  bronze  statues  of  Fear.  Scarcely 
was  a  breath  drawn;  not  a  man  moved.  The  black 
spirits  of  the  dead  were  about  them !  Not  a  hand 
was  raised  to  replenish  the  fires  with  faggots.  The 
flames  sank,  and  the  embers  sent  a  dull  blue  light 
upon  the  circles  of  haggard  faces ! 

As  Ashunhunga  passed  on  toward  his  tepee,  he 
suddenly  stumbled  over  a  shivering  form,  huddled 
in  the  shadow.  Quickly  regaining  his  feet,  he  saw 
that  upon  which  he  had  stumbled.  It  was  a  dwarfed, 
ill-shapen  body,  with  short,  crooked  legs  and  long 
emaciated  arms  with  protruding  joints.  The  form 
raised  itself  upon  its  hands  and  knees  and  looked 
upon  the  medicine-man  with  an  idiot  leer  upon  its 
face. 

It  was  Shanugahi  (Nettle)  the  cripple. 

With  a  cry  as  of  a  squaw  who  sees  a  black  spirit  in 
her  sleep,  Ashunhunga  rushed  into  his  tepee.  His 
mystical  songs  wailed  over  the  camp  for  a  while, 


THE    SMILE   OF   GOD  223 

then  ceased.  Overcome  by  his  fanatical  emotions, 
he  had  fallen  into  a  swoon.  And  he  had  a  dream. 

He  was  alone  upon  the  prairie  and  hunger  was 
pinching  his  entrails.  Then  there  came  a  bison  bull 
toward  him,  roaring  through  the  silence.  He  raised 
his  bow,  and  with  sure  aim,  sent  an  arrow  singing 
into  the  heart  of  the  beast.  Then  the  air  grew  black, 
save  for  a  blue  light  as  of  dying1  fires.  The  bison 
began  to  change  form !  Its  hind  legs  grew  short  and 
crooked;  its  fore  legs  became  long  and  lean  and 
sinewy  like  the  arms  of  a  starving  man.  Its  body 
dwindled,  dwindled — and  it  was  human !  Its  head 
became  indistinct  and  wavered  as  in  a  haze.  Then 
it  grew  boldly  up  in  the  ghastly  light  and  the  face 
was  the  face  of  Shanugahi  with  the  idiot  leer ! 

The  vision  whirled  giddily  and  sank  into  the  dizzy 
darkness. 

With  a  cry  as  of  one  stabbed  in  his  sleep,  Ashun- 
hunga  sprang  from  his  blanket  and  rushed  out  of  his 
tepee.  Those  who  sat  about  the  smouldering  fires, 
startled  from  their  dumb  terror  by  the  cry,  raised 
their  eyes  and  gazed  upon  the  face  of  the  medicine 
man  as  he  passed.  They  did  not  speak,  but  the  ques 
tion  on  their  faces  was  u  who?  " 

"  It  is  Shanugahi !  "  said  Ashunhunga  in  an  awing 
whisper.  "It  is  Shanugahi  whom  Wakunda  hates! 
He  has  brought  the  curse  upon  us !  " 

The  ill-shapen  bronze  mass  of  flesh  that  was  Sha 
nugahi  lay  curled  up  in  sleep  in  the  shadow  of  a 
tepee.  Suddenly  his  sleep  was  broken  by  a  heavy 


224  THE  LONESOME    TRAIL 

hand  reaching  out  of  the  darkness.  He  shook  him 
self,  raised  his  head  and  gazed  about.  He  saw  the 
faces  of  a  number  of  braves  indistinct  in  the  dim 
glow  of  the  fires.  Nearby  a  pony  stood  ready  for  a 
rider.  Then  a  strange  voice  close  to  his  ear,  whis 
pered  hoarsely:  "  Fly!  Fly!  The  black  spirits  of 
the  dead  are  about  you !  The  curse  of  Wakunda  is 
upon  you !  Fly !  Fly !  " 

Shanugahi  stared  about  him,  then  turned  his  mean 
ingless  eyes  upon  his  tribesmen  and  leered.  Strong 
arms  seized  him  and  placed  him  astride  the  wait 
ing  pony.  Someone  lashed  the  animal  across  the 
haunches,  and  it  plunged  down  the  valley  into  the 
blackness  of  the  night. 

When  the  dazed  rider  had  gone  some  distance,  the 
meaning  of  the  whispered  words  came  upon  him. 
Cold  sweat  sprang  out  on  his  limbs.  He  glanced 
about  him,  and  the  night  was  swarming  with  de 
mons! 

His  shriek  cut  the  stillness  like  a  knife  of  ice !  He 
grasped  the  mane  of  the  pony  with  a  convulsive  clasp. 
He  dashed  his  heels  into  the  flanks  of  the  terrified 
brute !  The  lone  gulches  thundered  with  the  beat  of 
hoofs.  Bushes  flew  past,  and  each  was  a  pursuing 
black  spirit ! 

Shanugahi  clung  closely  to  the  pony's  back,  hiding 
his  face  in  its  tossing  mane,  clasping  its  neck  with 
the  strength  of  madness,  pressing  its  ribs  with  his 
knees  until  the  straining  animal  groaned  with  pain 
and  fright.  Through  valleys,  over  hills,  down 


THE    SMILE   OF   GOD  225 

gulches  they  fled!  Clumps  of  sage  brush  flitted  past, 
and  each  was  a  heap  of  whitened  bones! 

It  was  like  falling  in  a  nightmare  through  an  im 
measurable  black  pit,  save  for  the  scamper  of  the 
coyote  as  it  sought  the  gulches,  whining,  or  the 
tumbling  flight  of  the  owl  or  bat,  fleeing  with 
wings  that  whirred  in  the  stillness! 

The  pace  of  the  pony  became  slower  and  slower. 
Its  breath  came  in  short,  rasping  gasps.  Then  with 
a  last  effort  of  its  terrified  limbs,  it  took  the  long 
incline  of  a  high  hill,  and  upon  the  bare  summit 
tumbled  to  its  knees.  Shanugahi  rolled  off  its  back, 
and  horse  and  rider,  worn  out,  swooned  upon  the 
summit. 

When  Shanugahi  awoke,  the  pale  light  that  fore 
goes  the  coming  sun  lay  upon  the  shivering  hills. 
He  looked  about  him  and  saw  a  circle  of  grey  wolves 
staring  at  him  with  eyes  like  small  moons  dawn- 
stricken.  He  felt  about  him  for  a  weapon,  but  found 
only  his  stone  pipe  and  a  pouch  of  red  willow  bark. 

He  filled  his  pipe  and  striking  a  spark  from  a  bit 
of  flint  that  strewed  the  summit,  he  lit  it.  Then  the 
sun  peeped  over  the  far  sky  line  and  with  its  hori 
zontal  rays  touched  the  hills  with  fire.  Its  light 
warmed  the  frozen  nerves  of  Shanugahi.  He  puffed 
grey  rings  of  smoke  into  the  air. 

At  length,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  he 
reared  his  hideous  body  in  the  glow  of  the  morning, 
and  with  a  long,  bony  arm,  raised  his  pipe  to  the 
smiling  sun  in  silent  invocation.  For  some  time, 


226  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

motionless,  he  stood  like  a  being  of  the  black  depths 
praying  for  mercy  from  the  shining  heights.  Then 
he  uttered  two  words. 

"Wakunda!     Tae!"   (O  God!  Bison!) 

The  staring  wolves,  moved  by  the  wild  voice, 
raised  their  noses  to  the  heavens  with  a  howl,  and 
slunk  away  into  the  gulches.  The  sun  rose  higher 
and  higher,  and  Shanugahi  breathed  into  his  veins 
the  laughing  gold  of  the  morning.  With  all  the 
simplicity  of  his  nature,  he  forgot  the  terror  of  the 
night.  It  was  to  him  as  some  vague  dream,  dreamed 
many  summers  past.  Yet  the  one  fixed  idea  of  find 
ing  the  bison  swayed  his  whole  being. 

His  hunger  had  reached  that  stage  in  which  it 
acts  like  a  heavy  draught  of  some  subtle  intoxicant. 
The  stupor  of  days  past  had  been  changed  into  a 
joyous  and  even  hopeful  delirium.  And  as  he  looked 
upon  the  sun,  to  him  it  was  the  smile  of  Wakunda ! 
Now  he  would  find  the  bison. 

He  caught  his  pony,  grazing  near  by,  and  leaping 
upon  its  back,  urged  its  stiffened  limbs  into  a  jog  and 
took  the  lonesome  stretch  of  prairie  with  song  upon 
his  lips.  All  day  the  pony  jogged  across  the  prairie 
at  an  easy  pace  toward  the  west.  At  that  time  of  the 
evening  when  the  coolness  comes  with  the  dew,  and 
the  bugs  awake  with  drowsy  hummings  among  the 
grasses,  Shanugahi  caught  a  roaring  sound  as  of  some 
sullen  storm  that  thunders  beneath  the  horizon. 

He  checked  his  pony  and  placing  his  hands  to  his 
ears,  listened  intently.  He  knew  the  sound!  Dis- 


THE    SMILE   OF   GOD  227 

mounting,  he  crawled  to  the  top  of  a  hill  and  gazed 
into  a  broad  valley. 

As  far  as  he  could  see,  straining  his  eyes,  the  valley 
was  black  with  bison !  For  a  moment  he  stood  spell 
bound;  then  a  great  joy  lashed  his  blood  into  a 
frenzy.  He  rushed  to  his  pony  and  mounting, 
turned  its  head  to  the  east.  The  night  came  down, 
and  still  Shanugahi  held  his  pony  to  a  fast  gallop. 
His  brain  whirled  giddily.  Now  he  had  found  the 
bison !  His  people  would  not  starve.  He  sang  and 
shouted  and  laughed  until  his  voice  broke  into  a 
cackle !  The  delirium  of  the  rider  was  caught  by 
the  pony.  With  all  the  might  of  long  generations 
of  prairie  herds,  it  sent  the  thundering  hills  and 
valleys  under  its  feet. 

At  that  time  of  the  morning  when  the  east  grows 
pale,  and  sleep  is  the  deepest,  the  famished  tribe, 
having  moved  a  weary  day's  journey  westward,  was 
sleeping  heavily.  Suddenly  a  hoarse  shout  shattered 
their  dreams  and  made  the  hills  clamorous  with 
echoes ! 

The  whole  camp  leaped  from  its  blankets  and 
stared  with  blinking  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
shout. 

There,  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill  that  overlooked 
the  camp,  stood  a  horse  and  rider  set  in  bold  relief 
against  the  pale  sky  of  morning.  With  a  long,  bony 
arm  the  rider  pointed  to  the  westward  and  again  he 
cried  in  a  weak,  broken  voice : 

"Tael     Tae!"   (Bison!  bison!) 


228  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

Then  horse  and  rider  collapsed  like  the  figures  of 
a  dream  that  wavers  with  the  morning.  A  number 
of  men  rushing  up  the  hill,  found  the  bodies  of  the 
pony  and  Shanugahi.  Upon  the  lips  of  the  dead 
rider  lingered  a  calm  smile  as  of  contentment. 

"  It  is  the  smile  of  Wakunda,"  said  one  old  man 
in  awe. 

"Wakunda  smiles!  Wakunda  smiles!"  shouted 
the  men.  The  whole  camp  caught  up  the  cry. 
"  Bison !  Bison !  Wakunda  smiles !  " 

And  when  the  sun  arose,  they  were  moving  west 
ward  on  the  trail  of  Shanugahi. 

Two  nights  afterward  there  was  joy  in  the  camp 
of  the  Omahas.  Having  found  the  long-sought-for 
herd,  they  had  feasted  heavily,  and  now  they  slept 
as  the  wolf  sleeps  when  the  prey  has  not  escaped. 
Beside  a  fire  two  old  men  were  still  awake,  and  as 
they  smoked,  they  talked  of  Shanugahi.  He  had 
found  the  herd.  Wakunda  had  smiled  upon  him; 
and  yet  Shanugahi  was  ugly  and  a  cripple! 

"Ugh!"  they  both  grunted  after  a  thoughtful 
silence,  shaking  their  heads  in  wonderment  at  so  in 
comprehensible  a  thing. 

Then  they  wrapped  themselves  in  their  blankets, 
and  slept. 


XVI 
THE    HEART  OF   A   WOMAN 

THE  council  of  the  fathers  sat  in  the  Big 
Lodge  with  very  grave  faces,  for  they  had 
come  together  to  pass  judgment  upon  the 
deed  of  a  woman.  As  they  passed  the  pipe  about 
the  circle,  there  were  no  words;  for  in  the  silence 
the  good  spirits  may  speak,  and  well  they  knew  that  it 
is  a  big  thing  to  sit  in  judgment. 

And  after  a  time  of  silence  and  deep  thought,  the 
door-flap  of  the  lodge  was  pushed  aside  by  two  who 
came — an  old  man  bent  with  many  loads,  and  a 
woman  in  whose  eyes  the  spring  still  lived.  And 
when  the  two  had  sat  down  without  the  circle,  the 
head  chief  spoke :  "  Let  the  man  speak  first."  Then 
the  old  man,  who  had  brought  the  woman,  arose. 

"  Fathers,  you  see  a  man  with  a  sad  heart,  for  I 
have  brought  my  daughter  before  you  for  judgment. 
The  things  which  she  has  told  me  I  could  have  buried 
very  deep  in  my  breast;  but  I  am  old,  and  the  wis 
dom  of  the  old  is  mine.  Who  can  bury  a  bad  thing 
deeper  than  the  spirits  see? 

"  And  so  I  am  here  to  make  sharp  words  against 
myself,  for  the  father  and  the  child  are  one. 

"  You  remember  that  the  season  of  singing  frogs 
229 


230  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

[April]  has  passed  three  times  since  one  of  the  pale 
faces  came  among  us.  He  was  a  paleface,  but  he 
was  not  like  his  brothers  who  find  gladness  in  doing 
deeds  that  are  bad.  You  have  not  forgotten  how 
his  words  and  deeds  were  kind,  his  voice  very  good 
to  hear,  nor  how  his  face  had  the  beauty  of  a 
woman's,  though  it  was  not  a  woman's  face.  Also 
his  hands  were  white  as  the  first  snow  fallen  on  a  green 
place;  and  his  hair  was  long  like  the  hair  of  our 
people,  but  it  clung  about  his  head  like  a  brown  cloud 
when  the  evening  is  old. 

"  He  was  hungry  and  lean  when  he  came  among 
us.  His  pony  was  hungry  and  lean.  And  we  took 
him  in  with  glad  hearts;  we  lit  the  feast  fires  for 
him;  his  pony  we  staked  in  our  greenest  places:  for 
he  was  not  like  his  brothers. 

"  And  we  called  him  '  the  man  with  the  singing 
box,'  for  he  brought  with  him  a  thing  of  wood  and 
sinews;  and  over  this,  while  we  feasted,  he  drew  a 
stick  of  wood  with  the  hair  of  a  pony's  tail  fastened 
to  it,  making  songs  sweeter  than  those  of  our  best 
women  singers,  and  deeper  than  the  voices  of  men 
who  are  glad. 

u  Much  we  wondered  at  this,  for  the  magic  of 
the  paleface  is  a  great  magic.  And  as  he  made  the 
wood  and  sinews  sing  together,  we  forgot  to  eat  and 
the  feast  fires  fell  blue;  for  never  before  had  such  a 
singing  been  heard  in  our  lands.  And  once  he  made 
it  sing  a  battle  song  that  snarled  like  a  wounded 
rattlesnake  in  a  dry  place,  and  cried  like  an  angry 


THE    HEART   OF   A   WOMAN      231 

warrior,  and  shrieked  like  arrows,  and  thundered 
like  many  pony  hoofs,  and  wailed  like  the  women 
when  the  band  comes  back  with  dead  braves  across 
the  backs  of  ponies.  And  as  he  made  it  sing  this 
song,  even  we  who  were  wise  leaped  to  our  feet  and 
drew  forth  our  weapons  and  shouted  the  war  cry 
of  our  people — so  great  was  the  song.  And  when 
our  shouting  ceased,  the  man  made  the  medicine  box 
sing  low  and  sweet  and  thin  like  a  woman  crying 
over  a  sick  zhinga  zhinga  [baby]  in  the  night.  And 
we  forgot  the  battle  cries;  we  gave  tears  like  old 
women. 

"  Do  you  remember?  This  is  the  man  of  whom 
I  speak. 

"  Many  young  moons  grew  old  and  passed  away, 
and  still  he  lived  among  us,  until,  lo !  he  was  even 
as  our  kinsman,  for  he  learned  the  tongue  of  our 
people,  being  great  of  wit. 

"  And  he  told  us  of  a  wanderer  whose  own  people 
were  unkind  to  him;  a  tale  of  one  who  was  not  of 
the  people  of  whom  he  was  born,  because  he  loved 
the  spirits  that  sing,  more  than  a  very  rich  man  loves 
his  herds  of  ponies  blackening  many  hills  where  they 
graze.  And  it  was  of  himself  he  told;  he  was  the 
wanderer.  So  we  loved  him  because  of  this  and  be 
cause  of  his  kind  words  and  because  of  the  song 
which  he  made  in  his  medicine  box. 

"And  all  the  while  my  girl  here  was  growing 
taller — very  good  to  see.  Many  times  I  said  to  my 
woman,  '  There  is  something  growing  between  these 


232  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

two.'  And  we  both  saw  it  with  glad  hearts,  for  he 
was  a  great  man. 

"  And  one  night  in  my  first  sleep  I  was  awakened 
by  a  crying  of  sorrows  better  to  hear  than  laughter — 
a  moan  that  grew  loud  and  fell  again  into  softness 
like  a  night  wind  wailing  in  a  lonesome  place  where 
thickets  grow.  And  my  woman  beside  me  whispered, 
*  It  is  the  spirits  singing.'  But  the  girl  here  only 
breathed  very  hard.  I  could  hear  her  breathing  in 
the  darkness. 

uAnd  I  got  up;  I  pushed  the  skin  flap  aside;  I 
stood  as  though  I  were  in  a  dream.  For  there  by 
the  tepee  stood  the  man  with  the  singing  box  at  his 
neck.  His  long,  white  fingers  worked  upon  the 
sinews;  his  arm  drew  the  hair-stick  up  and  down. 
His  face  looked  to  the  sky  and  the  white  fires  of  the 
night  were  upon  it.  Never  had  I  seen  such  a  face; 
for  it  was  not  a  man's  face  nor  yet  a  woman's.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  good  man's  spirit  come  back  from 
the  star-paths.  I  looked  at  his  lips,  for  it  seemed 
that  the  singing  grew  up  from  his  mouth;  but  his 
lips  were  very  still. 

"And  my  eyes  made  tears;  for  many  forgotten 
sorrows  came  back  to  me  at  once,  and  I  felt  a  great 
kindness  for  all  things,  which  I  could  not  understand. 

u  And  when  he  dropped  his  arm  and  looked  at 
me,  his  eyes  threw  soft,  white  fire  into  my  breast, 
and  then  I  knew  the  singing  was  not  for  me.  Once 
when  my  woman  was  young  and  still  in  the  lodge  of 
her  father,  I  looked  upon  her  with  such  a  look. 


THE    HEART   OF   A   WOMAN      233 

"So  I  gave  the  girl  to  the  paleface;  and  for  a 
time  the  singing  box  was  still ;  for  they  made  a  silent 
music  between  them.  And  before  the  first  frosts 
made  the  hills  shiver,  the  palefaces  who  trade  for 
furs  came  to  our  village,  and  the  man  went  with 
them;  and  with  him  went  the  woman.  No  man  can 
be  deaf  to  the  call  of  his  kind;  so  he  went.  And  now 
the  woman  shall  speak,  and  you  shall  judge  her 
deed." 

The  old  man  sat  down  and  rested  his  face  in  his 
hands.  The  young  woman  arose  to  her  feet.  With 
lips  parted  the  chiefs  bent  forward  to  catch  the 
words  which  should  fall  from  her  mouth.  Tall  and 
thin  she  was,  and  shapely.  But  the  shadows  of  a 
great  toil  and  a  great  sorrow  clung  about  her  lean 
cheeks  and  under  her  black  eyes,  grown  too  big  with 
much  weeping. 

"  Fathers,"  she  began,  "  I  will  tell  you  how  my 
bad  deed  grew  upon  me ;  and  you  shall  judge.  I  will 
take  the  punishment,  for  I  have  felt  much  aching 
of  the  breast  and  I  can  stand  yet  a  little  more. 

"  Three  summers  ago  I  followed  the  man  of  the 
singing  box  into  the  North.  This  you  know — but 
the  rest  you  do  not  know.  It  is  the  way  of  the  pale 
face  to  toil  for  the  white  metal.  They  showed  my 
man  the  white  metal,  and  it  led  him  into  the  North 
among  strange  peoples,  where  there  is  much  gather 
ing  of  furs.  And  I  went  with  him,  for  a  woman  is 
weak  and  must  follow  the  man. 

"  Far  into  the  North  we  went  where  the  Smoky 


234          THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

Water  runs  thin  so  that  a  very  little  man  can 
throw  a  stone  across  it.  And  the  singing  box  went 
with  us. 

"  And  we  built  a  lodge  of  logs,  after  the  manner 
of  his  people,  near  to  a  great  log  lodge  where  the 
big  pale  chief  lived  and  said  words  that  should  be 
obeyed.  And  for  a  time  our  hearts  sang  together. 
But  when  the  snows  had  come,  it  happened  that  the 
big  pale  chief  spoke  a  word,  and  my  man  went  with 
his  brothers,  driving  many  dogs  further  into  the 
North  where  there  are  furs  of  much  worth. 

"  And  when  my  man  left  he  said,  '  Take  good  care 
of  Vylin  while  I  am  gone,  for  she  is  dearer  to  me 
than  my  life.'  And  I  stared  at  him  because  I  did  not 
understand.  It  was  the  singing  box  of  which  he 
spoke;  as  though  it  were  a  person  he  spoke  of  it;  he 
called  it  Vylin;  and  much  I  wondered. 

u  But  because  my  heart  was  warm  toward  the  man, 
I  did  acts  of  kindness  to  the  singing  box,  which  he 
called  Vylin;  for  I  had  not  yet  learned  that  it  was 
no  box  of  wood,  but  the  spirit  of  a  dead  woman  of 
the  palefaces. 

"  Through  the  long  cold  nights  I  held  it  close  to 
me  under  the  blankets.  And  often  in  the  night  I 
was  awakened  by  its  crying  when  in  my  sleep  I 
touched  it  strongly.  Like  a  zhinga  zhinga  [baby] 
it  cried;  and  my  heart  was  softened  toward  it,  for 
I  had  no  child  then.  Through  the  days  I  talked  to 
Vylin.  I  washed  it  much  that  it  might  be  clean  and 
of  a  good  smell.  And  often  it  made  soft  sounds 


THE    HEART   OF   A   WOMAN      235 

like  a  zhinga  zhinga  that  is  glad.  Then  would  I 
hold  it  to  my  dry  breasts  and  sing  to  it. 

"  But  more  and  more  I  learned  that  it  was  no 
box  of  wood,  but  a  living  thing.  For  I  began  to 
see  that  it  had  the  shape  of  a  woman.  Its  neck  was 
very  slender;  its  head  was  small;  and  its  hair  fell  in 
four  little  braids  across  its  neck  and  breast  down  to 
its  hips.  And  the  more  I  learned,,  the  more  my  breast 
ached ;  for  he  loved  Vylin,  and  her  voice  was  sweeter 
for  singing  than  my  voice.  And  I  thought  much  of 
how  she  sang  for  him  alone.  And  I  said,  '  She  does 
not  sing  for  me — only  for  him  does  she  sing;  there 
fore  she  loves  him  well.' 

"  When  the  grass  came  again  and  the  ice  broke 
up,  my  man  came  back  with  the  furs  and  the  dogs 
and  the  men.  They  came  floating  down  the  river 
on  big  canoes.  And  I  sang  when  he  came  again  into 
his  lodge,  for  the  winter  had  been  long.  Also,  I 
showed  him  how  kind  I  had  been  to  Vylin ;  I  thought 
he  would  be  very  glad.  But  he  frowned  and  spoke 
sharp  words.  He  said  it  was  wrong  to  wash  Vylin. 
My  breast  ached ;  I  could  not  understand.  Does  not 
a  good  mother  wash  her  zhinga  zhinga,  that  it  may 
be  clean  and  of  a  good  smell?  I  had  no  zhinga 
zhinga  then,  and  so  I  had  been  a  mother  to  Vylin. 

"And  when  I  told  him  this,  he  laughed  a  very 
harsh  laugh,  and  said  it  was  Vylin,  not  a  zhinga 
zhinga;  so  that  I  was  sad  until  he  spoke  a  very  soft 
word,  then  I  forgot  for  many  days. 

"  But  as  the  grass  grew  taller  and  the  scent  of 


236  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

green  things  blew  in  every  wind,  my  man  grew 
strange  toward  me.  Like  a  man  with  the  ache  for 
home  he  was.  And  more  and  more  it  became  his 
mood  to  be  very  silent  while  he  made  Vylin  sing  to 
him — O  such  strange,  soft  songs,  like  spirits  weeping ! 

"  And  more  and  more  my  heart  grew  sore  toward 
Vylin,  for  when  I  sang  that  he  might  forget  her  to 
look  upon  me,  he  frowned  and  spoke  sharp  words. 

"  So  one  day  as  he  sat  in  a  shady  place,  making 
songs  with  his  fingers,  I  said  to  him :  *  If  so  softly 
you  should  lay  your  fingers  upon  my  neck,  I  too  could 
sing  as  sweetly ! '  And  he  smiled,  and  it  was  like 
the  sun  breaking  through  a  cloud  that  has  hung  long 
over  the  day.  And  he  drew  me  close  to  him  and  said : 
*  Do  you  see  the  leaves  upon  this  tree,  and  do  you 
know  how  many?  '  And  I  laughed,  for  I  was  glad, 
and  in  the  old  days  it  had  often  been  his  wish  to 
joke  so.  But  he  said:  *  So  many  of  the  palefaces 
have  listened  to  me  making  Vylin  sing;  and  they 
wept  to  hear.  But  now  am  I  far  away  and  strange 
peoples  are  about  me.' 

"  And  that  was  the  last  of  my  gladness  for  many 
moons;  for  more  and  more  he  wished  to  be  silent. 
And  when  the  snows  came  again  he  went  away.  And 
I  was  very  lonesome  and  sad  until  I  knew  that  I 
would  be  a  mother.  Then  my  heart  sang,  for  I 
said :  '  Now,  my  man  will  look  upon  me  again  and 
speak  soft  words  as  in  the  old  times.  Does  Vylin 
bring  him  zhinga  zhingas?' 

"And  all  through  the  cold  days  I  was  glad;  my 


THE    HEART   OF   A   WOMAN      237 

heart  was  soft.  I  took  good  care  of  Vylin;  I  was 
kind  to  her,  for  at  last  I  thought  that  she  would  be 
second  in  his  heart.  I  pitied  her  as  I  thought  this. 
I  washed  her  no  more,  but  ever  through  the  frosty 
nights  I  kept  her  warm  with  many  blankets,  even 
though  I  shivered. 

"And  when  the  grass  came  my  man  came  also. 
And  another  came,  a  nu  zhinga  [boy].  But  my 
man  looked  with  cold  eyes  upon  my  zhinga  zhinga; 
so  I  wept  many  nights,  many,  many  nights.  And 
much  weeping  made  me  not  good  to  see.  So  the 
man  looked  upon  me  no  more;  only  upon  Vylin  did 
he  look.  With  very  soft  eyes  did  he  look  upon  her; 
with  such  eyes  did  he  look  upon  me  in  the  old  days. 

"  My  heart  grew  very  bitter.  Often  I  heard  him 
talking  soft  talk  to  her — such  as  he  talked  to  me  in 
the  old  times.  And  I  wished  to  tear  her  hair,  her 
yellow  hair  from  her  head!  I  wished  to  kill  her,  to 
walk  upon  her,  to  hear  her  groan,  to  see  her  die !  " 

The  woman's  eyes  flashed  a  battle  light.  Her 
hands  were  clenched,  her  face  was  sharp  and  cruel. 
Very  tall  she  grew  in  her  anger — a  mother  of 
fighting  men. 

"  And  that  night,"  she  said,  "  I  threw  angry 
words  at  the  man.  I  spoke  bad  things  of  Vylin.  I 
called  great  curses  down  upon  her.  And  I  said: 
*  She  sings,  but  does  she  bring  you  sons  to  feed  you 
when  you  are  old?  '  And  he  laughed  with  a  harsh 
sound. 

u  So  that  night  when  the  man  slept  I  got  up  very 


238  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

stealthily  from  the  blankets.  My  breast  ached,  and 
many  black  spirits  pressed  their  fingers  into  my  heart. 
I  took  a  knife — a  very  sharp  knife.  I  uncovered 
Vylin  where  she  lay  sleeping  in  her  blankets.  I  felt 
for  the  place  where  her  heart  should  be.  Then  I 
struck,  struck,  struck!  Very  deep  I  sent  the  sharp 
knife,  and  I  laughed  to  hear  the  great  groan  that 
Vylin  made  as  she  died. 

"  And  also  the  man  heard.  He  leaped  from  his 
blankets.  He  struck  me  with  his  fist;  he  beat  me. 
He  called  down  all  the  big  curses  of  his  people  upon 
me.  He  gave  me  the  nu  zhinga.  He  pushed  me 
from  the  door  into  the  darkness. 

"  *  Begone !  '  he  said,  '  for  you  have  killed  Vylin ! ' 

"  And  I  went  into  the  darkness  with  my  nu  zhihga. 

Many  days  have  I  walked  with  much  hunger;  and 

always  the  nu  zhinga  was  a  heavy  burden.    And  now 

I  am  thin;  my  feet  are  weary;  my  breast  aches." 

A  deep  sighing  shook  the  young  woman  as  she 
sat  down.  The  old  man  arose,  and  there  was  a 
sound  of  heavy  breathing  as  he  spoke  to  the  chiefs 
who  sat  to  judge:  "  My  girl  has  spoken  of  her  bad 
deed.  She  has  killed  the  singing  spirit  that  the  pale 
face  loved.  How  shall  she  be  punished?  " 

And  after  a  long  stillness  the  head  chief  spoke: 
"  The  heart  of  a  woman  is  a  strange  thing,  a  tender 
thing;  who  shall  judge  it?  " 

And  one  by  one  they  who  sat  to  judge  arose  and 
left  the  big  lodge. 


XVII 
MIGNON 

BUT,  Yellow  Fox,"  I  protested,  "no  one 
understands  them;  they  do  not  understand 
themselves !  " 

Yellow  Fox  grunted  and  smiled,  showing  a  very 
white  set  of  wolfish  teeth.  We  two  were  sitting 
together  outside  the  lodge,  and,  male-like,  we  had 
hit  upon  the  topic  of  woman.  The  locust-like  ca 
dences  of  the  songs  and  the  shuffle  of  dancing  feet 
came  muffled  to  us.  The  scent  of  boiling  beef  and  the 
good  smoke-tang  of  wood  fires  permeated  the  sultry 
night  air,  lifting  my  not  overcivilised  fancy  back 
into  the  spacious  star-hung  feast  rooms  of  the  dead 
years,  where  big-boned,  brawny,  fighting  men  in 
dulged  their  lusts  for  steaming  haunches.  The  full 
moon  lifted  a  Rabelaisian  face  of  lusty  red  above 
the  hills,  and  I  saw  by  its  light  the  eager  spirit  of  the 
story-teller  bright  in  the  eyes  of  Yellow  Fox. 

"  What  they  understand  I  do  not  know,"  he 
began;  "  I  only  know  I  do  not  understand.  And  I 
have  travelled  far.  When  I  was  a  young  man,  many 
strange  valleys  knew  my  feet,  and  from  many  hill 
tops  my  eyes  looked  forth.  For  from  my  first  moc 
casins  my  feet  caught  the  itch  for  going.  And  in 
many  villages  of  strange  peoples  I  have  lived  for 

239 


24o  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

little  spaces,  until  the  feasts  were  tasteless  and  the 
maidens  ugly.  Then  did  my  moccasins  itch  my  feet 
again,  so  that  I  went  forth  and  sought  new  feasts, 
other  maidens. 

"  And  I  have  known  many  maidens.  None  of 
them  did  I  understand;  and  least  of  all — Mignon. 

"  Even  to-night  something  of  the  soft  summer 
smell  of  her  is  in  my  nose;  and  if  I  were  not  old  I 
would  walk  far,  walk  far;  for  that  smell  is  like  a 
voice  calling  over  big  waters  and  many  valleys — a 
voice  so  far  away  that  the  ear  does  not  catch  it — so 
thin  that  it  is  no  sound,  but  a  feeling. 

"  Have  I  told  you  how  that  a  white  man  came  to 
our  lands  once  and  led  me  on  a  long,  strange  trail? 
It  happened  so.  He  was  a  keeper  of  many  strange 
men  and  many  horses  and  many  strange  animals, 
and  for  money  he  showed  these  to  many  peoples, 
and  so  grew  rich. 

"And  the  man  showed  me  much  money;  he  told 
me  of  new  lands  and  new  peoples ;  he  spoke  of  feasts, 
of  women  that  were  as  dreams.  Therefore,  I  felt 
the  itch  in  my  feet  again,  and  I  went  with  the  man. 
And  we  came  at  last  to  many  big  tepees,  where  the 
man  kept  the  strange  things  that  he  showed  to  the 
people  for  money.  One  of  his  tepees  was  as  big 
as  the  village  of  a  tribe — and  he  had  many. 

"  I  had  my  place  among  all  these  strange  things; 
for  the  white  man  said :  4  You  are  the  wild  man  that 
growls  like  a  bear  and  eats  babies.  I  give  you  money 
and  you  must  look  very  wild  and  growl  much  when 


MIGNON  241 

the  boys  stick  at  you  with  straws.1  And  this  was 
good  fun. 

"  So  I  stood  twice  every  day  fastened  to  a  post 
by  a  thong  of  metal.  The  people  stood  about  me 
a,nd  stared.  I  growled,  I  pulled  at  the  fastenings, 
I  ate  raw  meat;  I  was  very  wild.  Many  came  to 
see,  and  when  I  would  have  gone  back  to  the  lands 
of  my  people,  the  white  man  showed  me  more  money, 
so  that  I  stayed. 

"  We  travelled  very  far  with  the  big  tepees.  We 
came  to  the  Big  Salty  Water,  but  we  did  not  stop 
there;  we  crossed  it — and  were  in  another  land. 

"  And  then  there  was  a  big  village — a  very  big 
village.  There  we  stopped,  and  the  people  came 
to  see. 

"You  know  that  vilPge— Par's— Par's?  "  asked 
Yellow  Fox,  falling  momentarily  into  English. 

"  Yes,  Paris,"  I  corrected,  "  and  you  were  with 
Barnum." 

"  Ah,"  he  assented,  speaking  his  own  tongue 
again ;  "  and  it  is  a  village  of  women  that  make  the 
eyes  glad  and  the  blood  quick!  I  stood  many  days, 
growling  for  the  people  and  eating  raw  meat.  And 
one  day  Mignon  came.  A  young  man  of  her  own 
people  was  with  her.  They  stared  and  talked  much 
together.  Some  of  their  talk  I  knew,  for  it  was  the 
talk  that  the  fur  traders  used,  and  my  father's  father 
was  a  trader  for  furs. 

"  And  Mignon  made  the  eyes  glad.  She  was  tall 
for  a  woman  and  not  thick.  The  women  of  my 


242  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

people  are  short  and  thick.  Her  face  was  very  white, 
and  her  eyes  were  big  and  deep — like  waters  in  a 
shadow. 

"  And  the  man  made  jokes  at  me  that  stung  like 
elkhorn  whips,  for  he  was  thin  and  looked  as  one 
whose  blood  is  half  water.  I  could  have  choked  him 
with  two  fingers  like  a  worm.  So!  " 

Yellow  Fox  snapped  his  fingers  viciously. 

"  And  it  pleased  the  young  man  to  shove  his 
finger  into  my  ribs  and  laugh.  So  I  grasped  his  arm 
very  hard.  I  put  his  finger  to  my  mouth ;  I  bit  it  and 
the  blood  came.  He  cried  ow  ow;  then  I  said  to  the 
woman,  using  what  speech  of  hers  I  knew :  '  Take 
this  baby  man  of  yours  away  or  I  will  eat  him,  for 
I  am  hungry.  But  you  are  good  to  see;  I  like  you; 
touch  me.' 

"  And  she,  wondering  that  I  spoke  her  speech, 
touched  me! 

"  Ah — everything  was  changed!" 

Yellow  Fox  suddenly  passed  into  a  subconscious 
mood.  The  moon,  grown  pale  with  its  ascent, 
illumined  his  masterful  male  features,  over  which 
I  could  see  the  dream  of  old  days  flitting  like  a  ghost. 
The  song  of  the  women  dancing  about  the  feast 
fires  within  arose  into  a  high  and  tenuous  minor  of 
yearning,  filling  up  the  momentary  gap  in  the  story 
like  a  chorus.  In  the  wake  of  the  passing  gust  of 
song,  the  voice  of  Yellow  Fox  arose,  soft,  low, 
musical — the  voice  of  memory, 

u  Her  hands  she  laid  upon  me — soft  and  white 


MIGNON  243 

and  thin,  they  were.  She  passed  them  over  the 
muscles  of  my  breast;  she  stroked  my  arms.  Soft 
as  a  mother's  touch  was  hers;  like  a  mother's  touch 
— but  I  felt  a  fire  burning  at  her  finger  tips,  that 
made  me  wish  to  fight  big  men  for  her,  and  make 
them  bleed  and  make  them  groan  and  make  them 
die,  slobbering  blood  in  the  dust!  Then  afterward 
to  take  her  far  away,  thrown  across  my  back  like 
a  dead  fawn;  to  build  a  lodge  for  her  in  a  lonesome 
place  where  man's  face  never  was ! 

"  Much  hair  she  had — much  hair  that  hung  above 
her  face  like  a  dark  cloud  upon  a  white  sky  at  even 
ing.  And  it  brushed  across  my  breast!  I  shivered 
as  in  a  wind  that  drives  the  snow  before  it — and  yet 
I  was  not  cold. 

"  And  then  she  was  gone — swallowed  up  in  the 
river  of  people.  But  not  all  of  her  was  gone.  A 
smell  sweeter  than  the  earth-smell  when  the  spring 
rains  fall  was  in  my  nostrils!  A  smell  that  gnawed 
within  me  like  a  hunger — yet  I  did  not  wish  to  eat! 
A  smell  of  soft,  white  flesh — oh,  very  soft  and  white  1 
And  now  in  my  old  age  I  call  that  smell  Mignon. 

"  And  the  people,  like  a  noisy,  muddy  stream, 
flowed  round  me,  past  me.  But  I  growled  no  more ; 
for  I  did  not  wish  for  fun.  I  hated  them — they 
stank!  An  ache  like  the  ache  for  home  was  upon 
me;  an  ache  like  the  ache  of  a  man  who  smells  the 
home-smoke  in  a  dream  and  wakes  far  off  from  home. 

"  Two  sunlights  passed — and  in  the  evening  I 
stood  under  many  lights,  bound  with  the  iron  thongs; 


244  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

and  the  noisy,  stinking  stream  of  people  was  about 
me.  Their  staring  eyes  were  as  many  bugs  that 
swarmed  about  and  stung  me.  I  strained  at  the  iron 
thongs;  I  hurled  the  black  curses  of  my  people  in 
among  them — and  they  were  pleased.  But  this  was 
no  play;  I  wished  to  rush  among  them  and  walk 
upon  them;  for  I  had  seen,  and  now  no  longer  did 
I  see. 

"  But  suddenly  the  smell  came  back!  It  grew  up 
like  the  smell  of  spring  when  the  ice  makes  thunder 
in  the  rivers  and  the  flowers  come  out !  And  she  was 
there  beside  me. 

"  I  forgot  the  people;  I  was  no  longer  angry.  I 
was  in  a  big  lonesome  prairie  with  the  sunlight  and 
the  singing  winds,  and  she  was  with  me,  and  all  the 
air  seemed  soft  and  cool  as  when  a  black-winged 
raincloud  shuts  out  a  day  of  heat. 

"  I  can  feel  her  hands  upon  me  yet." 

Yellow  Fox  sighed.  A  passionate  outburst  of 
song  from  the  dancers  within  filled  the  quiet  night 
with  sounds  of  longing,  through  which  the  cowhide 
drums  throbbed  feverishly,  like  a  heart. 

"  And  the  words  she  spoke  were  soft.  They  made 
me  wish  to  shout  the  mating  songs  of  my  people. 
They  made  me  very  strong.  And  then  I  learned  her 
name — Mignon. 

"  Mignon !  Mignon !  Such  a  sound  the  spring 
winds  make  among  the  first  leaves;  and  yet — it  is 
not  all  a  sound;  it  is  part  a  smell! 


MIGNON  245 

"  And  after  that  she  came  often ;  every  evening 
she  came,  like  a  south  wind  blowing  over  prairies 
sweet  with  rain  at  sunset.  Many  things  she  asked 
me  and  I  told  her  many  things.  I  made  with  my 
mouth  a  picture  of  my  own  lands;  and  some  of  it 
she  put  in  a  little  book,  and  some  she  only  drank 
with  all  her  face,  as  though  she  was  thirsty. 

"  And  they  who  had  travelled  far  with  us,  the 
pitchers  of  the  tepees  and  the  tenders  of  the  animals, 
laughed  softly  in  passing,  showing  their  teeth  in 
mirth — for  were  they  not  jealous? 

"  One  night  she  did  not  come.  And  it  happened 
on  that  night  that  the  big  tepees  were  folded  up  for 
another  trail;  and  in  the  morning  we  were  far  away. 
My  breast  cried  out  for  her;  my  nose  longed  for  the 
smell  which  was  Mignon. 

"  So  I  spoke  of  her  to  the  pitchers  of  the  tepees, 
and  they  laughed  very  loud  and  long,  sending  forth 
breaths  that  stank  as  they  laughed.  They  said  bad 
things  of  Mignon.  They  said,  '  Can  you  not  under 
stand?  She  is  of  those  that  her  people  have  cast 
out.'  And  this  made  my  breast  cry  out  for  her  again ; 
for  was  I  not  also  alone?  Were  not  my  own  people 
far  away?  But  the  rest  of  it  I  knew  to  be  another 
white  man's  lie !  One  liar  I  struck  very  hard  in  the 
teeth ;  and  when  he  got  up  from  the  dust,  slobbering 
blood  and  toddling  like  a  baby,  he  laughed  no  more 
and  said  no  more  bad  things  of  Mignon.  And  was 
this  not  proof  that  he  had  lied? 

"  Is  the  first  earth-smell  of  the  spring  bad?    Had 


246  THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

not  many  maidens  of  the  prairies  longed  for  me; 
and  were  they  not  good?  Was  I  not  big  and  of 
heavy  muscles  ?  Was  I  not  young  and  good  for  the 
eyes  of  women? 

"  Since  I  am  old  and  much  withered,  I  can  say 
this;  for  I  have  become  another  man." 

The  song  of  the  women-singers  within  had  ceased, 
but  the  sullen  drums  kept  up  a  throbbing  snarl.  At 
length  the  voice  of  Yellow  Fox  continued  in  a  low 
monotone : 

u  We  stopped  in  many  big  villages ;  and  my  breast 
was  sick.  More  and  more  I  wished  for  the  prairies. 
At  night  I  heard  the  dry  winds  singing  in  the  grasses. 
I  spoke  no  more  of  Mignon,  for  I  was  afraid  to  hear 
again  the  laughter  of  the  pitchers  of  the  tepees.  One 
more  laugh  would  have  made  my  eyes  blind  with 
blood,  and  I  would  have  killed. 

"  I  lost  the  wish  to  eat ;  I  grew  shadow-thin.  So 
the  owner  of  the  tepees  said:  *  This  wild  man  is 
dying  for  a  sight  of  his  prairies;  I  will  send  him 
back.' 

"  I  travelled  far,  and  again  I  was  in  my  own  land. 
I  saw  the  hills;  I  smelled  the  smoke  of  the  fires  of 
my  people.  But  this  no  longer  filled  me.  I  had 
seen,  and  now  no  longer  could  I  see. 

"  And  the  winter  came.  I  sat  alone  much,  and 
as  I  sat  alone,  I  had  big  thoughts.  I  said:  *  This 
that  I  have  seen  was  a  dream  thing.  It  is  gone ;  and 
I  cannot  find  the  sleep  trail  that  leads  to  it  again. 


MIGNON  247 

Therefore,  I  will  do  as  others.  I  will  take  a  woman 
of  my  own  people.  I  will  eat  again ;  for  this  dream 
has  only  made  me  thin.'  , 

"  So  I  made  a  young  woman  of  my  people  glad. 
I  took  her  into  my  lodge.  But  even  through  the  time 
of  driving  snows,  I  smelled  the  smell  of  spring. 
Mignon !  Mignon !  I  heard  the  rain  winds  singing 
in  the  first  leaves!  Mignon!  Mignon!  I  heard 
the  sighing  of  summer  waters!  Mignon!  Mignon! 
It  was  half  a  sound  and  half  a  smell — dream  sound, 
dream  smell — so  thin,  so  thin! 

"  And  the  time  came  when  the  big  swift  arrows 
of  the  geese  flew  northward,  spreading  softness  as 
of  many  camp  fires  in  all  the  air;  and  the  River 
wakened  and  shook  itself,  shouting  with  a  hoarse 
voice  into  the  south.  The  green  things  came,  and 
there  was  a  singing  of  frogs  where  the  early  rains 
made  pools.  The  smell,  which  was  Mignon, 
breathed  up  out  of  the  earth;  the  sound,  which  was 
Mignon,  lived  in  the  trees  and  grasses. 

"  And  then  the  time  came  when  it  is  no  longer  the 
spring,  and  not  yet  quite  the  summer.  One  evening 
I  sat  before  my  lodge,  smoking  and  thinking  big 
thoughts.  And  the  sun  was  low.  A  dust  cloud  grew 
far  down  the  road  that  twisted  like  a  yellow  snake 
toward  the  village  of  the  white  men.  It  was  a  waggon 
coming.  It  grew  bigger;  a  white  man  was  driving 
it.  It  came  near;  there  was  a  woman  in  it.  I  stared 
very  hard;  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  for  what  I  saw  was 
as  though  it  had  all  grown  up  out  of  my  pipe  smoke. 


248  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  The  woman  was  tall  and  not  thick.  Much  hair 
she  had — much  hair  that  hung  above  her  face  like 
a  black  cloud  upon  a  white  sky  in  the  evening.  And 
in  all  the  air  about,  there  grew  a  smell  sweeter  than 
the  earth-smell  when  the  spring  rains  fall.  I  sat 
very  still ;  I  did  not  wish  to  frighten  the  dream  away. 
And  the  woman  came  toward  me  with  much  rustling 
of  garments,  like  the  speaking  of  green  leaves  in  the 
wind  or  the  thin,  small  drumming  of  raindrops. 

11  Then,  between  the  puffing  of  two  smoke  rings, 
the  Spring  had  grown  big — and  was  the  Summer !  It 
was  Mignon !  It  was  Mignon !  " 

Yellow  Fox  lifted  his  face  to  the  full  moon,  and 
his  voice  was  raised  to  a  poignant  cry  as  he  uttered 
the  word  that  was  half  sound,  half  smell.  Then  for 
some  time  he  brooded  with  his  chin  resting  in  his 
hands,  while  the  women-singers  within  filled  the 
heavy  air  with  wailings.  At  length  he  sat  up  and 
leisurely  filled  his  pipe.  His  face  had  become  a 
wrinkled  mask  again.  He  smoked  awhile,  then  pass 
ing  the  pipe  to  me,  he  continued,  and  his  voice  was 
thick  as  though  he  still  breathed  smoke: 

"  After  the  snows  have  run  away,  the  earth-smell 
rises  and  all  things  grow  drunk  with  it.  The  he-wolf 
sniffs  it;  he  forgets  his  last  year's  mate;  he  takes 
another  and  forgets.  The  air  and  the  earth  and  the 
water  are  full  of  new  loves,  and  nothing  is  ashamed. 

"  It  was  so. 

"  When  the  next  sunlight  came  I  made  ready  for 


MIGNON  249 

the  trail.  I  rolled  up  my  tepee.  All  the  while  my 
woman  stared  upon  the  woman  who  had  come,  with 
eyes  made  sharp  with  hate.  I  called  in  my  ponies 
from  the  grazing  places.  I  hitched  a  pony  to  the 
drag.  I  put  upon  the  drag  the  tepee  and  the  food 
and  the  little  box  that  Mignon  had  brought  with  her 
— a  box  of  many  garments — garments  that  made 
songs  when  she  walked,  like  the  songs  of  rain  in  the 
leaves.  I  lifted  Mignon  upon  the  drag-pony's  back, 
and  we  rode  away  on  the  summer  trail. 

"  I  heard  my  woman  wailing  and  crying  out  bit 
terly  in  my  lodge,  but  a  spirit  led  me  on — the  spirit 
that  calls  the  green  things  out  in  the  spring — the 
spirit  that  whispers  into  the  ear  of  the  sleeping  River 
and  makes  it  leap  up  and  shout  and  tear  the  thongs 
that  bind  it — the  spirit  that  makes  the  wolves  cry 
out  in  the  lonesome  places  that  the  mate  may 
hear.  That  spirit  went  calling  down  the  trail  I  fol 
lowed. 

"  And  we  came  to  a  place  by  the  river  where  the 
hills  were  high  and  many  leaves  made  coolness. 
There  I  pitched  the  tepee ;  and  the  days  were  as  little 
flashes  of  light,  and  the  nights  were  as  little  shadows 
passing. 

"  Never  before  had  I  found  it  so  good  to  live. 
Mignon  made  songs  that  laughed  and  cried;  and 
when  she  did  not  sing,  the  rustle  of  her  garments  was 
a  song.  I  became  as  a  squaw;  I  brought  the  wood 
and  water;  I  made  the  fires;  I  cooked.  I  was  bowed 
before  her.  Never  before  had  I  bowed  before  any- 


250  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

one,  for  I  was  strong.  I  could  not  understand.  She 
was  so  soft  and  white  and  of  so  sweet  a  smell ! 

"  But  the  time  came  when  she  no  longer  sang. 
She  grew  silent,  and  each  day  gazed  long  upon  the 
river.  Her  hands  touched  me  no  more  with  the 
touch  of  soft  fires.  So  I  grew  kinder  still.  I  spoke 
soft  words.  I  made  sweet  sounds  to  call  her.  But 
she  frowned  and  pushed  me  away. 

"  My  breast  ached  much,  so  I  said:  *  You  think 
always  of  that  baby  man  whose  finger  I  bit.  I  could 
choke  him  with  my  fingers — so!'  But  she  laughed 
in  my  face,  making  sharp  jokes  to  fling  at  me.  I  was 
stung  as  with  whips  when  the  whippers  are  angry. 
I  said :  '  Go  back  to  your  baby  man !  ' 

"  I  did  not  wish  her  to  go ;  they  were  the  words  of 
my  anger.  But  she  got  up  very  straight  and  tall. 
There  was  lightning  in  her  eyes.  Thunder  slept  in 
her  face.  And  her  hair  seemed  as  a  black  cloud  that 
blows  up  angrily  out  of  the  hot  south ! 

"  She  went  to  the  tepee;  she  made  ready  to  go; 
and  all  the  while  I  watched  with  fires  in  my  breast. 
Then  suddenly  she  turned  upon  me — her  face  was  a 
flame.  She  flung  words  at  me :  '  You  are  all  the 
same !  '  She  spit  in  my  face !  I  have  been  struck  in 
the  teeth  by  strong  men,  but  never  have  I  felt  so 
hard  a  blow.  I  sat  as  a  man  in  a  dream.  I  heard 
the  angry  song  of  her  skirts  as  she  fled  up  the  back- 
trail.  And  then  I  was  as  one  who  wakens  with  a 
great  hunger,  and  smells  raw  meat!  I  leaped  up;  I 
ran  after  her;  I  meant  to  kill  her! 


MIGNON  251 

"  I  caught  her;  I  struck  her  with  my  fist,  even  as 
I  struck  the  man  who  lied.  I  put  my  fingers  at  her 
throat  and  pressed  very  hard.  I  carried  her  back  to 
the  tepee.  I  thought  I  had  killed  her. 

"  Oh,  the  smell  of  her  flesh  as  she  lay  very  still — 
as  though  I  had  stepped  upon  a  flower ! 

"  And  then  after  a  long  time,  when  my  breast  was 
growing  sick,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  upon 
me.  O  tender,  tender  were  her  eyes  and  full  of  soft 
fires !  It  was  the  old  look,  only  it  was  stronger.  She 
raised  herself  to  her  knees;  she  put  her  arms  around 
my  neck;  she  put  her  lips  on  my  lips;  she  called  me 
soft  names! 

"  I  thought  this  was  some  woman's  trick.  I  pushed 
her  from  me.  I  said :  1 1  am  hungry ;  you  are  my 
squaw ;  cook  my  food !  '  And  she  brought  wood  and 
water;  she  made  a  fire;  she  worked  for  me.  All  the 
while  her  eyes  were  soft,  and  often  she  touched  me 
with  finger  tips  that  burned  as  of  old  with  soft  fires. 
I  could  not  understand.  When  I  was  kind,  then  was 
she  not  kind.  And  now,  with  the  blue  marks  of  my 
angry  fingers  at  her  throat,  she  worked  for  me,  her 
eyes  were  soft  for  me,  her  finger-tips  were  warm  for 
me.  I  cannot  understand." 

Yellow  Fox  took  the  pipe  from  my  hands  and 
smoked  long  in  silence.  He  sighed  deeply,  breathing 
in  great  breaths  of  smoke.  At  length,  growing  impa 
tient,  I  ventured  a  question:  "  And  what  became  of 
Mignon?  " 

He  laid  down  his  pipe  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 


252  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  The  woman  who  wailed  in  the  lodge  had  not  for 
gotten  ! 

"  The  plums  ripened,"  he  continued,  "  and  the 
flowers  that  bloomed  upon  our  summer  trail  were 
heavy  with  seed.  The  hills  grew  brown.  A  grey- 
ness  like  smoke  was  in  all  the  air.  The  grapes  hung 
thick  and  purple. 

"  And  it  happened  one  night  when  the  first  small 
pinch  of  frost  was  in  the  air,  that  Mignon  would 
sing  soft  baby  songs,  such  as  the  mothers  of  her 
people  sang,  she  said.  Oh,  such  soft,  low  songs!  I 
hear  them  yet.  A  kindness  was  in  her  face,  like  that 
in  the  face  of  a  young  mother.  I  saw  it  by  the  light 
of  the  wood  fire  that  held  the  frost  away.  And  when 
she  had  sung  much,  as  to  a  child,  she  put  her  hands 
upon  my  shoulders  and  she  said  a  strange  thing.  This 
is  what  she  said,  I  remember:  *  Sometime,  Yellow 
Fox,  I  will  sing  to  your  zhinga  zhinga  [baby] ;  will 
you  be  glad?  ' 

"  And  I  wondered  much,  for  her  eyes  were  wet 
when  she  said  it. 

"  And  that  night  she  fell  to  sleep  with  her  soft 
hands  clutching  my  arm.  And  something  made  me 
wish  to  sing.  I  watched  her  sleeping,  and  there  was 
an  ache  in  my  breast  when  I  remembered  the  feel  of 
my  angry  fingers  at  her  throat.  And  then  I  slept. 

"  But  in  that  time  when  the  night  is  deepest  and 
sleep  is  like  a  weight  upon  the  eyes,  a  sharp  cry  woke 
me.  I  leaped  up.  The  fire  was  almost  dead.  I 
heard  feet  flying  through  the  dead  leaves  into  the 


MIGNON  253 

darkness.  One  hand  felt  warm  and  wet;  I  raised  it 
to  my  nose  and  it  was  blood.  And  then  I  heard  a 
gasping  for  breath  and  a  sound  of  gurgling.  I  put 
my  hand  upon  the  breast  of  Mignon — and  it  was  wet 
with  blood! 

"  I  scraped  the  embers  together  and  made  a  little 
flame.  I  looked  upon  her  face  and  it  had  the  look 
of  death.  Eyes  that  ached  she  turned  upon  me.  I 
stopped  the  blood  with  torn  garments.  I  called  her 
soft  names  and  she  clutched  my  fingers.  Then  she 
was  very  quiet.  I  could  hear  leaves  dropping  out  in 
the  night. 

"  And  when  the  face  of  the  night  turned  grey,  she 
opened  her  eyes  that  were  hot  and  dry.  With  very 
weak  hands  she  drew  my  ear  close  to  her  lips.  She 
breathed  a  little  broken  piece  of  song — a  baby  song 
— a  song  of  the  mothers  of  her  people.  And  when 
I  looked  upon  her  agairi,  her  face  was  pinched,  her 
eyes  stared." 

Yellow  Fox  lapsed  into  another  prolonged  silence. 
The  dancers  and  singers  in  the  lodge  had  ceased. 
A  heavy,  sultry  silence  filled  the  night.  When  he 
spoke  again  his  voice  came  low  and  muffled: 

"  I  buried  her  after  the  manner  of  my  people.  I 
sang  the  songs  of  the  dead.  Above  her  grave  I 
killed  the  pony  that  she  rode.  And  then  I  went 
away  upon  the  trail  that  was  no  more  the  trail  of 
summer.  But  the  winds  in  the  grasses  sang  her 
name.  Mignon!  Mignon!  I  heard  the  rain  winds 


254  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

singing  in  the  first  leaves.  Mignon!  Mignon!  I 
heard  the  sighing  of  summer  waters.  Mignon! 
Mignon!  I  smelled  the  smell  of  spring.  Every 
where  it  was — Mignon! — half  sound,  half  smell — 
dream-sound,  dream-smell — so  thin — so  thin." 


XVIII 

A  POLITICAL  COUP  AT  LITTLE 
OMAHA 

THE  struggle  for  Congressional  honours  in 
the  Third  District  of  Nebraska  was  to  be 
a  hard  one.  The  white  voters  of  the  Dis 
trict  were  about  evenly  divided  between  the  two 
parties,  and  therefore  the  necessary  elective  ma 
jority  was  to  be  found  among  the  Omaha  Indians, 
whose  reservation  lies  in  this  district. 

So  this  remnant  of  the  Dark  Ages  became  of 
pivotal  importance  in  Twentieth  Century  politics; 
and  it  was  here,  in  the  wildest  land  of  the  district, 
that  the  decisive  battle  of  strategy  must  be  fought. 

For  practical  purposes,  the  intelligent  white  voter 
ceased  to  exist,  and  there  was  only  a  slothful,  igno 
rant  band  of  semi-savages  who  should  choose  by 
chance  the  national  representative  of  educated  thou 
sands. 

The  typical  reservation  Indian  is  primarily  a 
stomach,  and  secondarily  nothing  in  particular.  Let 
him  fill  his  belly  and  he  is  easily  handled.  This 
axiom  had  been  taken  as  a  basis  for  action  by  the 
whiphands  of  the  Democratic  Party,  who,  accord 
ingly,  scattered  broadcast  throughout  the  reservation 
considerable  quantities  of  the  meat  of  superannuated 

255 


256  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

bulls;  sat  in  the  feasts  with  cross-legged  condescen 
sion  ;  smoked  the  reeking  stone  pipes ;  drank  hot  soup 
with  the  suppressed  shudders  of  a  revolting  stomach, 
and  called  the  brown  men  "  brothers." 

This  had  all  worked  very  well  in  the  latter  days 
of  September,  and  there  had  been  considerable  re 
joicing  in  local  Democratic  circles  over  the  bright 
prospects  for  a  sweeping  majority. 

It  was  not  until  the  first  of  October  that  the  oppo 
sition  suddenly  hurled  a  thunderbolt  out  of  the  blue 
sky  of  its  seemingly  serene  inactivity.  The  Agent, 
holding  his  appointment  under  a  Republican  adminis 
tration,  announced  at  a  weekly  land  payment  that 
$100,000  of  the  considerable  sum  held  in  trust  by 
the  Government  would  be  paid  pro  rata  to  the 
Omahas  during  the  month.  It  was  after  this  an 
nouncement  that  the  local  leaders  of  the  Republican 
Party  became  active.  They  explained  to  their 
brothers  how  surpassingly  good  it  was  of  them  to 
bring  about  this  payment.  Would  their  brothers 
forget  this  at  the  November  election?  Of  course 
not! 

So  it  happened  that  the  bull  meat  lost  its  power  of 
persuasion  and  for  several  weeks  there  was  not  a 
brown  Democrat  on  the  reserve.  Thus,  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  big  payment  on  a  Monday  morning  two 
weeks  before  election,  the  Democratic  candidate  for 
Congress  found  himself  staring  Defeat  in  the  face 
(which  was  brown)  after  having  enjoyed  several 
weeks  of  victory  (which  was  premature) . 


A  COUP  AT  LITTLE   OMAHA      257 

The  "  big  payment  "  has  always  been  picturesque 
and  is  now  fast  becoming  impossible.  It  may  be 
defined  as  the  spectacular  bow  of  the  Present  to  the 
Past,  with  which  Civilisation  lowers  its  proud  plume 
and  says  to  the  Savage  Age:  "  Sorry  I  swiped  your 
land;  take  that  and  don't  feel  sore!  "  Or  words  to 
that  effect. 

The  opening  days  of  the  big  payment  were  warm 
with  the  lazy  warmth  of  the  mellow,  golden  hours 
of  late  October.  The  untilled  hills  of  the  reserva 
tion  thrust  themselves  up  into  the  autumn  glare, 
unashamed  of  their  poverty  of  soil.  The  Agency 
building  nestled  forlornly  in  a  creek  valley  sur 
rounded  by  the  yellow,  wrinkled  hills. 

In  the  early  morning  a  lazy  string  of  vehicles  be 
gan  to  pour  into  the  Agency  from  the  dozen  or  more 
roads  that  outraged  the  compass  with  their  crazy 
windings,  and  seamed  the  bronze  face  of  the  prairie 
with  ugly  scars.  Carts,  buggies,  waggons,  carriages, 
some  of  glaring  newness,  weighted  down  to  the 
axles  with  squaws,  papooses  and  the  inevitable  mort 
gage;  others  in  an  epileptic  stage  of  decay,  with  the 
weary  air  of  having  borne  the  weight  of  outlawed 
paper  for  many  moons;  ponies,  long-haired,  and 
emaciated  with  many  unconsoling  feeds  of  post  and 
halter,  carrying  at  once  upon  their  sawlike  backs 
their  sweating,  heavy  masters,  and  (heavier  than 
these)  the  seeming  consciousness  of  long-dishonoured 
promissory  notes;  these  constituted  the  grotesque 
Republican  procession  that  streamed  into  Little 


25  8  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

Omaha,  as  the  Agency  is  called,  on  that  morning  in 
October. 

It  was  as  a  tribal  exodus.  The  entire  tribe  of 
twelve  hundred  odd  men,  women,  and  children  was 
leaving  its  shacks  and  tepees  that  morning,  in  search 
of  the  minted  eagles  of  the  Government,  just  as,  of 
old,  they  moved  in  a  hungry  body  upon  the  trail  of 
the  bison. 

As  the  vanguard  of  this  grand  but  dilapidated 
army  of  the  primitive  world  closed  in  upon  the 
Agency,  it  was  met  by  the  vanguard  of  the  greater 
commercial  army  of  civilisation,  and  a  wordy  skir 
mish  ensued.  These  were  the  inevitable  collectors 
who  hang  about  an  Indian  payment  like  a  crowd  of 
crows  scenting  a  carcass.  One  might  have  heard 
such  a  conversation  as  this  above  the  tumult  of  the 
meeting  races: 

"  Well,  Big  Bear,  goin'  to  pay  that  note  to-day?  " 

"Ugh?" 

"I  say  [voice  raised  a  key],  are  you  goin'  to 
pay  that  note — muska  zhinga,  wabugazee  [money, 
note]  ?  " 

"  Unkazhee!  "     (Don't  understand.) 

"  Damn  your  black  hide,  Big  Bear,  you  can  talk 
as  good  as  I  can!  I  say,  [voice  raised  to  a  shriek] 
if  you  don't  pay  that  note,  I'll  come  over  to  your 
place  and  take  every  dodgasted,  straw-bellied  shonga 
[pony]  you've  got !  " 
"  "Gad  up!" 

And  the  delinquent  debtor  put  the  whip  to  his 


A   COUP  AT  LITTLE   OMAHA      259 

long-haired,  shambling  mortgages  and  disappeared 
in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

The  Omaha  is  a  genius  for  contracting  debts.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  big  payment,  the  aggregate 
debts  of  the  tribe  were  roughly  estimated  at 
$200,000,  the  living  representative  of  long-digested 
groceries,  starved  ponies,  shattered  vehicles  and  for 
gotten  alcoholic  debauches. 

The  Government,  in  the  wisdom  of  blindness,  had 
caused  large  placards  to  be  posted  at  the  entrances  to 
the  Agency  grounds,  bearing  this  order:  "No  col 
lector  of  any  description  shall  be  allowed  within  a 
radius  of  half  a  mile  from  the  pay  station."  Accord 
ingly,  the  burly  Indian  police  strutted  about  in  blue 
clothes  and  brass  buttons  obstreperously  hustling  the 
white  creditors  over  the  half-mile  line,  where  they 
lounged  in  disconsolate  groups  along  the  dusty  high 
way,  playing  mumble-peg,  pitching  horseshoes,  and 
verbally  sending  the  entire  tribe  to  the  devil. 

"  Be  cussed  if  I  don't  hate  to  see  the  Twentieth 
Century  kicked  downstairs  this  way  by  the  Dark 
Ages!  Cussed  if  I  don't!  "  Thus  a  little  wiry,  pale- 
faced  undertaker  was  heard  to"  exclaim.  His  name 
was  Comfort  and  he  appeared  to  be  a  positive  misery 
both  to  himself  and  to  the  delinquent  relatives  of 
the  many  good  Indians  he  had  laid  away. 

Beside  the  little  undertaker,  there  were  lawyers, 
bankers'  clerks,  grocerymen,  liverymen,  middlemen, 
butchers,  doctors,  and  a  half  dozen  politicians,  there 
for  the  purpose  of  whipping  the  brown  voters  into 


260  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

line.  There  were  men  like  wolves,  bears,  dogs, 
goats,  roosters,  beetles,  scorpions.  The  little  under 
taker  was  the  scorpion ;  a  middleman  was  like  a  bear ; 
there  was  a  banker's  clerk  like  a  goat;  and  a  thin, 
angular,  tall  politician,  with  a  body  appropriately 
like  an  interrogation  point,  who  slunk  about  like  a 
hungry  wolf. 

By  ten  o'clock  the  last  stragglers  of  the  tribe  had 
arrived  and  the  Agency  grounds  were  filled  with 
circles  of  sweating,  brown  men,  women,  and  children, 
passing  the  stone  pipe,  tranquilly  awaiting  the  coming 
of  the  Agent,  whose  name,  upon  a  reservation,  is  a 
shout. 

By  10:30  the  Agent  appeared,  riding  down  the 
dusty  road  from  his  residence.  He  was  preceded  by 
mounted  police  of  pompous  bearing,  who  shouted 
"The  Agent!  Make  way  for  the  Agent!"  to  the 
circles  of  their  tribesmen  who  sat  in  the  dust  of  the 
highway. 

A  short  while  afterward  the  loungers  at  the  half- 
mile  line  heard  the  voice  of  a  crier  at  the  door 
of  the  pay  station,  calling  the  first  name  on  the  roll 
in  the  golden  autumnal  silence. 

" Nuzhee  Monaf  Geegoho!"  (Rain  Walker! 
Come  here!) 

Then  the  fact  that  Mr.  Rainwalker,  a  leader  of 
the  tribe  much  indebted  to  the  white  man,  was  about 
to  be  paid,  became  volatile  as  ammonia,  and  the  flut 
tering  of  time-yellowed  legal  paper  was  heard  along 
the  waiting  line  of  creditors. 


A   COUP  AT  LITTLE   OMAHA      261 

"  Owes  me  $6.46  with  interest  for  four  years!  " 

"Me  $25  and  interest — outlawed!  " 

"  IVe  got  the  old  cuss's  note  for  fifty!  " 

"  I  buried  his  fourth  and  sixth  wives,"  squeaked 
the  little  undertaker,  "  seven  and  nine  years  ago, 
respectively !  " 

Such  exclamations  ran  down  the  line  like  a  volley 
in  different  variations  of  vocal  emphasis. 

"Wonder  how  he's  votin',"  mused  the  hungry 
wolf  of  a  politician. 

"  To  the  devil  with  politics!  "  roared  the  bear  of 
a  middleman;  "I  want  the  rent  back  I  advanced 
him!" 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Rainwalker  was  seen  to  leave 
the  station,  mount  his  pony,  and  proceed  down  the 
dusty  road  toward  the  half-mile  line.  It  had  doubt 
less  occurred  to  him  that  during  past  winters  it  had 
been  necessary  to  eat,  and  he  was  coming  forth  to 
make  peace  with  the  groceryman. 

At  sight  of  the  approaching  debtor,  the  lounging 
line  of  creditors  sprang  to  its  feet  and  stood  at  atten 
tion.  The  grocer,  who  spoke  the  Omaha  tongue 
fluently  and  had  a  snug  fortune  laid  away  in  conse 
quence,  walked  rapidly  in  advance  of  the  others  and 
met  Mr.  Rainwalker  at  the  line,  followed  by  the 
straggling  crowd  of  expectant  creditors  like  a  trail 
ing  cloud  of  hungry  crows. 

Mr.  Rainwalker  had  a  large,  round,  pockmarked 
face  that  looked  for  the  world  like  a  pumpkin  pie 
overbaked  by  a  careless  cook,  with  a  monstrous  nose 


262  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

in  the  centre  of  it.  He  sat  placidly  upon  his  pony, 
that  had  all  the  salient  points  of  a  starved  cow,  and 
dozed  luxuriously  at  the  shortest  halt.  The  old 
chief  seemed  the  visible  body  of  an  optimistic  joke, 
sitting  upon  the  bone  heap  of  a  tragedy! 

The  grocer  had  barely  collected  the  greater  share 
of  the  old  man's  check,  when  he  became  the  centre  of 
a  noisy,  gesticulating  crowd  of  creditors.  It  was  the 
chatter  of  the  crows  about  the  carrion. 

*  You  know  you  promised  me  that  you  would 
settle  that  note !  "  said  the  goatlike  bank  clerk  in  his 
bleating  voice. 

"  How  about  that  rent  money  I  advanced,  Rain- 
walker?  "  roared  the  bearlike  middleman. 

"  I  want  my  money  for  them  wives  I  buried  for 
you — two  of  *em!"  squeaked  the  scorpionlike  under 
taker,  holding  up  two  explanatory  lingers  and  thrust 
ing  his  thin,  pale  face  into  the  melee. 

"  Ugh !  "  the  old  man  answered  rather  unsatis 
factorily. 

"  If  you  don't  pay  me,"  shrieked  the  incensed 
little  undertaker,  "  I'll  go  right  out  on  the  hill  and 
dig  up  them  boxes,  by  God!  " 

"  Muska  ningay!"  (no  money)  said  the  old  man. 
"  No  pay  'em  chil'n's  money  tall.  All  time  lie  to 
us.  Goan  votem  Dimmiticrat,  guess." 

And  with  this  statement,  bearing  with  it  the  fate 
of  a  national  representative,  the  old  chief  kicked  the 
tenacious  slumber  out  of  his  pony  and  rode  back  to 
the  Agency. 


A   COUP  AT  LITTLE   OMAHA      263 

"Eh?"  ejaculated  the  politician;  "  Votin'  Demo 
cratic,  eh  ?  Well,  I'll  be  cussed  I  It'll  snow  us  under ! 
Why  in  thunder  do  they  refuse  to  pay  the  money  to 
the  minor  children  ?  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  it'll  snow 
us  under!  " 

"  Drat  politics!"  squeaked  the  little  undertaker. 
"  Wisht  I'd  a-buried  'em  all  afore  now.  Cussed  if 
I  don't  go  right  out  on  that  there  hill  and  dig  them 
boxes  up !  " 

The  day  wore  on  with  an  alarming  recrudescence 
of  Democracy  among  the  red  men  (who  are  not  red, 
but  chocolate).  In  the  afternoon,  the  little  under 
taker  chased  White  Horse,  another  leading  man  of 
the  tribe,  into  the  brush  and  returned  with  a  broad 
grin  upon  his  face. 

"  Beats  the  devil!  "  ejaculated  the  thin  politician, 
"where  a  body  sometimes  finds  merriment!  How's 
he  votin',  Comfort?" 

"  Votin'  Democrat — the  whole  cussed  posse  of 
Jem!  But  I  don't  give  a  cuss — Democrat  or  Re 
publican  money's  all  the  same  to  me.  I  got  $15; 
one  of  his  kids  I  planted  five  years  ago;  died  of 
Cuban  itch ;  four-foot  pine  box !  He,  he,  he !  I  don't 
give  a  cuss  how  they're  votin'." 

That  night  there  was  a  meeting  of  Republican 
politicians  at  the  Agency  office.  A  most  alarming 
landslide  had  begun  that  day,  bearing  disaster  to  the 
ranks  of  the  Grand  Old  Party. 

"  Some  more  of  those  confounded  departmental 
rulings !  "  exclaimed  the  Agent  to  the  company  pres- 


264  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

ent.  "  It's  this  grandmotherly  solicitude  for  the 
Indian  that  makes  him  an  irresponsible  scamp.  Why, 
if  the  Government  had  turned  them  all  loose  to  sink 
or  swim  a  decade  ago,  Natural  Law  would,  by  this 
time,  have  solved  the  much  mooted  Indian  question. 
But  what  are  we  to  do?  "  And  the  Agent  stroked 
his  Van  Dyke  beard  in  perplexity. 

"  We've  got  to  do  something,"  said  the  lean  wolf 
with  the  body  like  a  question  mark;  "and  there's 
only  one  thing  to  do — get  Meekleman  here.  You 
remember  how  he  wheedled  them  into  line  four  years 
ago.  If  there's  a  man  in  the  world  who  can  bring 
them  around,  it's  Meekleman.  And  we'd  better  get 
McBarty  here,  too.  The  two  of  them  may  be  able 
to  kick  up  a  successful  powwow." 

Charles  D.  Meekleman  was  a  Nebraska  politician 
who  was  almost  a  statesman,  and  had  held  important 
positions  in  Washington  official  circles.  McBarty 
was  the  Republican  candidate  for  Congress.  It  was 
decided  that  they  should  be  sent  for  at  once. 

It  was  Friday  evening  when  the  two  great  men 
arrived;  and  upon  Saturday  morning  they  came  forth 
and  allowed  themselves  to  be  gazed  upon  freely. 
McBarty  was  a  heavy-set,  middle-sized  man,  with  an 
earnest  expression  of  countenance,  and  the  rather 
bewildered  air  of  a  candidate  being  led  forth  to 
sacrifice  for  the  first  time.  Meekleman  was  tall, 
superbly  built,  clad  in  the  faultless  manner  and  bear 
ing  about  him  that  air  of  refinement  which  had  won 
him  from  his  rural  constituents  the  name  of  "  Gen- 


A   COUP  AT  LITTLE   OMAHA      265 

tleman  Charlie."  The  manner  of  his  shaking  hands 
with  any  comer  was  most  consummate  flattery;  and 
although  it  was  done  with  an  air  of  magnanimous 
condescension,  there  was  something  masterful  in  his 
eyes,  looking  down  kindly  from  his  heavy  brows,  as 
from  a  battlemented  tower,  that  established  the 
utmost  confidence.  He  had  the  happy  faculty  of 
disposing  of  a  boiled  potato  at  a  farmhouse  with  a 
refined  dignity  acquired  over  many  a  French  dish 
at  the  banquets  of  the  distinguished;  and  the  manner 
in  which  he  addressed  a  bunch  of  squaws  and  bucks 
as  "  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  was  surpassingly  suave. 

The  two  great  men  strolled  leisurely,  arm  in  arm, 
down  the  dusty  road  to  the  pay  station,  stopping 
often  to  shake  hands  with  the  Omahas,  and  radiating 
smiles  like  small  human  suns.  When  they  had 
reached  the  pay  station,  Mr.  Meekleman  approached 
the  Agent,  busy  signing  checks,  and  said  in  his  big, 
clear,  slow  voice,  that  it  might  be  heard  by  the  loung 
ing  Indians:  "  Major,  I  wish  you  would  announce 
to  the  gentlemen  that  I  want  to  talk  to  them  this 
evening  over  at  Fire  Chief  lodge.  Tell  the  gentle 
men  that  I  am  very  much  grieved  for  them,  and  that 
I  shall  endeavour  to  right  their  wrongs;"  and  he 
raised  his  heavy  brows  and  condescendingly  smiled 
upon  the  brown  loungers,  while  the  Agent  instructed 
a  policeman  to  make  the  announcement. 

That  evening  a  party  consisting  of  the  Agent, 
Messrs.  Meekleman  and  McBarty,  and  several  local 
politicians,  proceeded  on  foot  to  Fire  Chief  lodge, 


266  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

which  is  a  large  octagonal  shack  placed  in  a  lone 
some  valley  a  mile  distant  from  the  Agency. 

"Brace  up,  Mac!"  said  Meekleman,  as  the  two 
walked  along  the  lonesome  prairie  road.  "  To-night 
I  shall  have  the  honour  to  make  a  man  of  you — the 
Honourable  James  McBarty !  Have  a  cigar  and  try 
to  keep  cool." 

"  Yes,  thanks.  I  was  just  feeling  a  little  surprised 
at  the  lonesome  road  that  seems  to  lead  to  Congress 
— that  was  all.  Do  you  really  suppose  we  can  win 
them  over?  " 

u  Well,  you  shall  see,"  returned  Meekleman. 
"  Follow  my  suit  and  don't  make  faces  at  the  soup; 
for  one  really  must  drink  soup,  you  know,  to  be 
Congressman  from  this  district.  I  say,  Mac,  did  you 
ever  smoke  killikinick?  Well,  anyway,  I  advise  you 
to  smoke  it  to-night  till  the  back  of  your  neck  aches. 
Ha,  ha !  There  is  really  no  royal  road  to  Congress, 
Mac !  "  And  Meekleman  slapped  the  candidate 
upon  the  shoulder  and  filled  the  great  prairie  silence 
with  jovial  laughter. 

As  the  party  neared  the  lodge,  from  which  the 
light  of  the  fire  within  streamed  out  through  the 
windows  into  the  moon  haze,  they  heard  the  sound 
of  the  drum  and  the  singing  that  accompanies  an 
Indian  feast;  a  wild  melodious  flight  of  notes, 
threaded  with  the  snarl  of  the  drum  like  the  beat  of 
a  fevered  temple,  rising  in  ecstasy,  like  the  wail  of 
a  fitful  night  wind  in  the  scrub  oaks  of  a  bluff,  and 
falling  suddenly  to  die  in  a  guttural  note  like  the 


A   COUP  AT  LITTLE   OMAHA      267 

burr  of  a  wounded  rattlesnake.  A  barbaric  music 
filled  with  the  sounds  of  Nature  and  old  as  the 
wrinkled  prairie ! 

"  This,"  said  Meekleman,  stopping  near  the  en 
trance  to  listen  to  the  deep,  beautiful  voices  within, 
"  This,  McBarty,  is  the  Indian  of  romance.  Now  for 
the  bitter  truth — and  the  soup !  " 

As  they  entered  the  long,  narrow  passageway  lead 
ing  into  the  lodge,  they  saw  before  them  a  large 
octagonal  room  with  a  wood  fire  blazing  in  the 
centre.  About  the  dusky  walls  the  huge,  perverted 
shadows  of  the  singers  flitted  in  grotesque  dances  as 
they  swayed  in  the  ecstasy  of  song.  A  circle  of 
brown  men  sat  about  the  sputtering  fire  over  which  a 
large  iron  kettle  steamed  forth  the  scent  of  beef. 
Near  the  circle  sat  the  smaller  circle  of  drum 
mers  about  a  washtub  with  a  cowhide  stretched 
across  it. 

Within  the  larger  circle  near  the  fire,  sat  a  squaw, 
cutting  bits  of  beef  from  a  quantity  of  ribs  that  she 
held  conveniently  in  her  lap. 

"  Shade  of  Mrs.  Rorer!  "  exclaimed  the  would-be 
Congressman  in  a  whisper  to  his  companion;  "  is  that 
the  soup  ?  " 

"Hist!"  returned  Meekleman;  "one  should  be 
willing  to  suffer  for  his  country!  " 

At  the  entrance  of  the  great  men,  the  singing 
ceased  abruptly,  and  the  singers  turned  their  sullen, 
brute-like  eyes  upon  their  visitors  and  grunted. 

"  Are  there  any  of  the  leading  men  here?  "  asked 


268  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

Meekleman  of  the  Agent.  Rainwalker  and  White 
Horse  were  both  present. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Meekleman,  pointing  to  an  unusually 
homely  old  Indian;  "  who  is  that  black  scamp  with 
the  big  face  and  the  remarkably  stupendous 
nose?" 

"Rainwalker,"  replied  the  Agent;  "a  leader;  it 
would  be  well  to  make  peace  with  him  first." 

Meekleman  approached  the  old  chief  with  his  soft, 
white  hand  extended  and  his  face  the  picture  of 
rapture. 

"Well,  well,  Rainwalker!  Here  you  are!  Fm 
glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Rainwalker!  How  well  you 
look;  I  needn't  ask  about  your  health;  your  com 
plexion  could  scarcely  be  surpassed!  " 

Mr.  Rainwalker  turned  a  shade  lighter  with  pride 
and  grinned,  returning  the  great  man's  salutation 
with  a  large  bunch  of  beef-scented  silence. 

Meekleman  sat  down  cross-legged  in  the  circle 
and  took  the  circulating  stone  pipe  in  his  turn,  smoked 
heroically  and  drank  large  quantities  of  hot  soup. 
The  sullen  faces  of  the  firelit  circle  brightened.  Old 
Rainwalker  began  to  talk  in  his  own  tongue,  staring 
meanwhile  meditatively  into  the  fire.  For  several 
minutes  his  deep  musical  voice  ran  on  with  occasional 
dignified  pauses  and  gestures  indicating  that  he  spoke 
of  the  great  white  man  beside  him.  Meekleman 
gave  an  Indian  youth  a  coin  to  act  as  interpreter. 

"  He  says,"  said  the  youth,  "  that  you  all  time 
walk  with  good  people  and  eat  good  stuff,  but  you 


A    COUP   AT    LITTLE    OMAHA     269 

are  not  too  good,  he  says,  to  smoke  and  eat  with  us, 
he  says.  He  likes  you  pretty  much,  guess." 

The  old  chief  talked  again  for  some  time,  and 
then  lapsed  into  dignified  silence. 

"  He  says,"  continued  the  youth,  "  that  you  have 
lived  in  the  same  lodge  with  the  Big  Father  at  Wash 
ington,  and  you  can  get  the  money  for  the  chiFns,  he 
guess.  That's  what  he  says." 

"  Tell  my  dear  brother,"  said  Meekleman,  "  that 
my  heart  is  warm  toward  my  brown  brothers,  and 
that  the  children  shall  have  their  money.  Tell  him 
that  I  played  with  the  Big  Father  when  he  was  a 
little  boy,  and  that  I  know  the  Big  Father  would  be 
terribly  angry  if  he  knew  that  the  children  had  been 
refused  their  money.  Tell  him  that  I  will  see  that 
they  get  it." 

This  short  speech  translated,  sent  a  murmur  of  joy 
around  the  circle.  White  Horse  arose  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  circle  and  brought  a  cup  of  hot 
soup  to  his  white  brother  as  a  special  favour. 

"  And  now,"  said  Meekleman,  arising  majestically 
as  befitted  the  erstwhile  playmate  of  the  President, 
"  I  shall  introduce  to  you  Mr.  McBarty.  He  will 
go  to  Washington  for  you  and  he  will  do  many  good 
things  for  the  Omahas." 

Mr.  McBarty  came  forth  and  fell  to  shaking  the 
brown  hands  of  the  grown-up  children.  He  started 
with  Rainwalker,  who  carefully  rubbed  his  left  hand 
upon  his  blanket  before  presenting  it  to  the  future 
saviour  of  his  race.  Then  after  having  shaken  all 


270  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

the  hands,  including  that  of  the  squaw  who  stripped 
beef  from  the  ribs,  the  potential  Congressman  fell 
heroically  upon  the  soup  and  the  killikinick. 

An  old  Indian  placed  cross-legged  near  a  wood  fire 
with  the  feel  of  hot  soup  in  his  belly,  invariably  be 
comes  reminiscent.  Old  White  Horse  sat  staring 
into  the  sputtering  flame  with  his  face  as  expression 
less  as  a  stone  statue  of  Buddha,  and  his  voice  began 
in  a  low,  musical  tone,  rising  as  his  memory  quick 
ened,  and  modulated  with  great  oratorical  skill, 
for  which  he  was  noted  in  the  tribe.  His  words 
translated  ran  thus: 

"  These  new  times  are  not  like  the  old  times. 
When  we  old  men  were  young  and  the  bison  still 
bellowed  on  the  prairies,  we  were  strong  and  swift 
and  wise.  Now  we  are  weak  and  slow  and  not  wise. 
I  cannot  understand.  It  is  all  like  a  day  when  there 
is  fog  everywhere.  When  we  were  young  and 
fought  the  Pawnees  and  the  Sioux,  there  were  no 
bigger,  wiser  men  than  Nuzhee  Mona  [Rainwalker] 
and  Shonga  Ska  [White  Horse].  Look  at  us  now! 
We  are  old  and  slow  and  we  cannot  see  far  to-day. 
Once  when  I  was  young  I  found  a  sick  bison  bull 
wandering  in  the  hills.  He  was  weak  and  half  blind 
and  he  had  lost  the  trail.  We  are  weak  and  half 
blind  and  we  cannot  find  the  old  trail.  I  cannot 
understand." 

"  Ah,  ah,  ah !  "  A  groan  ran  about  the  firelit 
circle,  intent  upon  the  old  wise  man's  word. 

"  We  cannot  find  Wakunda  [God]  any  more.   He 


A    COUP   AT    LITTLE    OMAHA     271 

is  not  in  the  valleys  any  more,  nor  on  the  hills.  We 
cannot  talk  to  the  big  white  Wakunda.  What  can 
we  old  men  say  to  our  foolish  people  when  they  need 
wise  words?  Every  day  they  are  more  like  badgers. 
They  eat  much,  drink  firewater,  and  are  very  foolish. 
But  we  have  these  white  brothers  and  we  will  listen 
to  them.  Their  wisdom  is  the  new  wisdom ;  we  will 
listen  to  them." 

"  Ah,  ah!  "  assented  the  listeners. 

For  an  hour  the  circle  sat  staring  into  the  flame, 
thinking  of  the  old  times.  Then  without  a  word, 
Rainwalker  and  White  Horse  arose  and  passed  out 
of  the  lodge  and  the  others  followed. 

"Well,"  said  Meekleman  to  McBarty,  as  they 
walked  along  the  lonesome  road  toward  the  Agency, 
"  I  have  the  honour  to  address  the  Hon.  James 
McBarty!" 

The  other  did  not  answer  for  several  minutes. 

"  Meekleman,"  said  McBarty  at  length,  u  don't 
you  suppose  I  can  do  something  for  these  poor 
devils?" 

"  Ah,  McBarty,"  returned  Meekleman,  "  I  am 
afraid  you  will  never  be  a  politician !  " 

Upon  the  following  Monday  morning  when  the 
tribe  gathered  for  the  continuation  of  the  big  pay 
ment,  the  news  began  to  circulate  that  the  great  white 
man  had  gone  to  see  the  Big  Father  at  Washington 
about  the  payment  of  the  money  to  the  minor  chil 
dren.  As  this  news  was  authenticated  by  White 
Horse  and  Rainwalker  themselves,  it  was  readily 


272  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

believed,  and  in  one  day  four  hundred  brown  votes 
swung  over  to  the  Republican  faith  again. 

On  Tuesday,  a  week  before  election,  there  was  not 
a  brown  Democrat  on  the  reserve.  This  state  of 
affairs  continued  on  through  the  week  until  Friday 
evening,  at  which  time  no  word  had  come  from  the 
Big  Father. 

The  Democratic  candidate  for  Congress,  Judge 
Roberts,  had  arrived  at  the  Agency  during  the  week 
to  battle  in  person  against  the  impending  calamity. 
All  week  he  and  his  retainers  led  the  forlorn  hope. 
But  on  Friday  afternoon,  when  the  news  so  impa 
tiently  awaited  by  the  Indians  had  not  yet  arrived, 
the  all  but  lost  cause  began  to  gain  a  foothold  in  a 
persistent  rumour  that  hinted  that  maybe  the  Indian 
had  been  fooled  after  all.  Maybe  Meekleman  didn't 
intend  to  intercede  for  the  Indians  at  all ;  and  accord 
ingly,  one  by  one,  the  brown  men  wondered,  doubted, 
wavered  and  lost  hope,  until  by  Saturday  evening, 
when  the  pay  station  closed,  there  had  begun  a  rest 
less,  slow,  and  certain  movement  among  the  Omahas 
toward  the  Democratic  ranks. 

When  Monday  morning  came,  twenty-four  hours 
before  the  opening  of  the  polls,  the  political  condi 
tion  of  the  Omahas  could  have  been  summed  up  in 
one  laconic  conversation: 

"  Well,  cuggie,  [friend]  how  are  you  voting?  " 

"  Dimmiticrat,  guess!  " 

McBarty  strolled  leisurely  about  among  the  Oma 
has  with  an  enigmatical  smile  upon  his  face,  seeming 


A   COUP  AT   LITTLE    OMAHA     273 

to  be  unconscious  of  the  crushing  defeat  he  was, 
apparently,  about  to  receive.  The  day  wore  on  and 
hour  by  hour  grew  the  triumph  of  the  Judge,  who 
now  already  felt  himself  the  "  Gentleman  from 
Nebraska." 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  two  candidates 
were  seen  talking  together  at  the  door  of  the  pay 
station. 

"  Well,  Mac,"  said  the  Judge,  "  it's  looking  a 
little  dark  for  you.  I  swear,  a  week  ago  I  would 
have  sold  my  chances  for  a  cent !  " 

McBarty  repeatedly  looked  up  the  dusty  govern 
ment  trail  leading  north  from  the  station  with  an 
expression  of  anxiety. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  allow  me  to  congratulate  the 
Hon.  John  Roberts  of  Nebraska !  "  He  smiled 
gravely  as  .he  shook  the  hand  of  his  rival.  UA11  I 
regret  now,"  he  added,  "  is  that  I  drank  that  soup !  " 

"  Thanks!  "  replied  the  Judge.  "  It  really  seems 
a  shame,  however,  that  one  should  go  to  Congress 
at  the  hands  of  these  savages,  eh?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  McBarty,  taking  a  long  gaze  up  the 
trail;  "  it  is  a  shame,  to  be  sure!  " 

At  that  moment  a  little  farce  was  being  enacted  a 
mile  up  the  road.  Within  the  covering  of  a  wild 
plum  thicket  at  the  side  of  the  trail  a  saddled  and 
bridled  horse  was  lariated  to  a  stake,  and  a  man  sat 
near  by  upon  a  rock,  repeatedly  tapping  the  horse 
on  the  flanks  as  it  galloped  about  in  a  circle. 

"  Lather  up  there!  "  cried  the  man,  as- he  nipped 


274          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

the  horse  with  the  whiplash;  "lather  up  there!" 
And  the  horse  dashed  about  the  circle  until  its  flanks 
were  dripping  and  its  mouth  was  white  with  foam. 

At  length  the  man  took  out  his  watch,  saw  that 
it  was  5  .-30  o'clock,  and  untying  the  lariat,  he 
mounted  and  put  the  spurs  to  his  already  jaded 
animal,  dashing  at  a  furious  pace  down  the  dusty 
old  trail  toward  the  Agency. 

A  few  moments  later  McBarty  and  the  Judge 
caught  sight  of  a  furious  rider  dashing  toward  them 
in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"  Who  do  you  suppose  that  can  be  riding  so 
fast?  "  said  the  Judge. 

"  Oh,"  said  McBarty,  smiling  broadly,  "  that, 
Judge,  is  merely  my  election  coming  up  at  the 
gallop!" 

Amid  dust  and  yelling  and  a  general  spectacular 
confusion  the  horseman  dashed  up  to  the  door  of  the 
pay  station,  threw  his  horse  on  its  haunches  in  stop 
ping,  and  cried:  "A  telegram  from  Washington  for 
the  Agent !  " 

In  a  few  moments  a  great  crowd  of  Indians  had 
gathered  about  the  horse  and  rider.  The  Agent, 
with  a  smile  upon  his  face,  rushed  out  of  the  station 
and  seized  a  bit  of  yellow  paper  that  the  rider  held 
in  his  hand.  Breathlessly  the  crowd  of  Omahas 
waited. 

"Listen!  "  shouted  a  crier  in  the  Omaha  tongue, 
standing  by  the  Agent,  who  was  reading  the  tele 
gram.  "  The  Big  Father  at  Washington  sends  this 


A   COUP   AT    LITTLE    OMAHA     275 

word  to  his  brown  brothers :  *  The  children's  money 
shall  be  paid ! '" 

For  a  moment  following  the  shout  of  the  crier, 
there  was  a  great  silence.  Then  a  roar  went  up  from 
the  Omahas — a  wild,  hoarse  shout  of  joy!  Judge 
Roberts  turned  pale,  and  extending  his  hand  to 
McBarty,  said :  "  Well,  you  have  won.  Allow  me 
to  congratulate  the  Hon.  James  McBarty  of  Ne 
braska." 

And  when  the  next  morning's  sun  arose,  the  polls 
were  besieged  by  a  throng  of  brown  Republicans. 


XIX 

THE   LAST  THUNDER   SONG 

IT  is  an  ancient  custom  to  paint  tragedy  in  blood 
tints.     This  is  because  men  were  once  merely 
animals,  and  have  not  as  yet  been  able  to  live 
down  their  ancestry.     Yet  the  stroke  of  a  dagger  is 
a  caress  beside  the  throb  of  hopeless  days. 

Life  can  ache;  the  living  will  tell  you  this.  But 
the  dead  make  no  complaint. 

There  is  no  greater  tragedy  than  the  fall  of  a 
dream !  Napoleon  dreamed ;  so  did  .a  savage.  It  is 
the  same.  I  know  of  the  scene  of  a  great  tragedy. 
Very  few  have  recognised  it  as  such;  there  was  so 
little  noise  along  with  it.  It  happened  at  the  Omaha 
Agency,  which  is  situated  on  the  Missouri  River 
some  seventy  miles  above  Omaha. 

The  summer  of  1900  debilitated  all  thermal  ad 
jectives.  It  was  not  hot;  it  was  Saharical!  It  would 
hardly  have  been  hyperbole  to  have  said  that  the 
Old  Century  lay  dying  of  a  fever.  The  untilled  hills 
of  the  reservation  thrust  themselves  up  in  the  August 
sunshine  like  the  emaciated  joints  of  one  bedridden. 
The  land  lay  as  yellow  as  the  skin  of  a  fever  patient, 
except  in  those  rare  spots  where  the  melancholy  corn 
struggled  heartlessly  up  a  hillside,  making  a  blotch 
like  a  bedsore! 

276 


THE   LAST  THUNDER   SONG      277 

The  blood  of  the  prairie  was  impoverished,  and 
the  sky  would  give  no  drink  with  which  to  fill  the 
dwindling  veins.  When  one  wished  to  search  the 
horizon  for  the  cloud  that  was  not  there,  he  did  it 
from  beneath  an  arched  hand.  The  small  whirl 
winds  that  awoke  like  sudden  fits  of  madness  in  the 
sultry  air,  rearing  yellow  columns  of  dust  into  the 
sky — these  alone  relieved  the  monotony  of  dazzle. 

Every  evening  the  clouds  rolled  flashing  about  the 
horizon  and  thundered  back  into  the  night.  They 
were  merely  taunts,  like  the  holding  of  a  cool  cup 
just  out  of  reach  of  a  fevered  mouth;  and  the  clear 
nights  passed,  bringing  dewless  dawns,  until  the 
ground  cracked  like  a  parched  lip ! 

The  annual  Indian  powwow  was  to  be  ended  pre 
maturely  that  year,  for  the  sun  beat  uninvitingly  upon 
the  flat  bottom  where  the  dances  were  held,  and  the 
Indians  found  much  comfort  in  the  shade  of  their 
summer  tepees.  But  when  it  was  noised  about  that, 
upon  the  next  day,  the  old  medicine-man  Mahowari 
(Passing  Cloud)  would  dance  potent  dances  and  sing 
a  thunder  song  with  which  to  awaken  the  lazy  thun 
der  spirits  to  their  neglected  duty  of  rain-making, 
then  the  argument  of  the  heat  became  feeble. 

So  the  next  morning,  the  bronze  head  of  every 
Indian  tepeehold  took  his  pony,  his  dogs,  his  squaw, 
and  his  papooses  of  indefinite  number  to  the  pow 
wow  ground.  In  addition  to  these,  the  old  men  car 
ried  with  them  long  memories  and  an  implicit  faith. 

The  young  men,  who  had  been  away  to  Indian 


278  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

school,  and  had  succeeded  to  some  extent  in  stuffing 
their  brown  skins  with  white  souls,  carried  with  them 
curiosity  and  doubt,  which,  if  properly  united,  beget 
derision. 

The  old  men  went  to  a  shrine;  the  young  men 
went  to  a  show.  When  a  shrine  becomes  a  show,  the 
World  advances  a  step.  And  that  is  the  benevolence 
of  Natural  Law ! 

About  the  open  space  in  which  the  dances  were 
held,  an  oval  covering  had  been  built  with  willow 
boughs,  beneath  which  the  Indians  lounged  in  sweat 
ing  groups.  Slowly  about  the  various  small  circles 
went  the  cumbersome  stone  pipes. 

To  one  listening,  drowsed  with  the  intense  sun 
shine,  the  buzzle  and  mutter  and  snarl  of  the  gossip 
ing  Omahas  seemed  the  grotesque  echoes  from  a 
vanished  age.  Between  the  fierce  dazzle  of  the  sun 
and  the  sharply  contrasting  blue  shade,  there  was 
but  a  line  of  division;  yet  a  thousand  years  lay 
between  one  gazing  in  the  sun  and  those  dozing  in 
the  shadow.  It  was  as  if  God  had  flung  down  a 
bit  of  the  Young  World's  twilight  into  the  midst  of 
the  Old  World's  noon.  Here  lounged  the  master 
piece  of  the  toiling  centuries — a  Yankee.  There  sat 
the  remnant  of  a  race  as  primitive  as  Israel.  Yet 
the  white  man  looked  on  with  the  contempt  of 
superiority. 

Before  ten  o'clock  everybody  had  arrived  and  his 
family  with  him.  A  little  group,  composed  of  the 
Indian  Agent,  the  Agency  Physician,  the  Mission 


THE   LAST   THUNDER   SONG       279 

Preacher,  and  a  newspaper  man,  down  from  the  city 
for  reportorial  purposes,  waited  and  chatted,  sitting 
upon  a  ragged  patch  of  available  shadow. 

"  These  Omahas  are  an  exceptional  race/'  the 
preacher  was  saying  in  his  ministerial  tone  of  voice; 
"  an  exceptional  race!  " 

The  newspaper  man  mopped  his  face,  lit  a  ciga 
rette  and  nodded  assent  with  a  hidden  meaning 
twinkling  in  his  eye. 

"Quite  exceptional!"  he  said,  tossing  his  head 
in  the  direction  of  an  unusually  corpulent  bunch  of 
steaming,  sweating,  bronze  men  and  women.  "  God, 
like  some  lesser  master-musicians,  has  not  confined 
himself  to  grand  opera,  it  seems !  " 

He  took  a  long  pull  at  his  cigarette,  and  his  next 
words  came  out  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  This  particular  creation  savours  somewhat  of 
opera  bouffe !  " 

With  severe  unconcern  the  preacher  mended  the 
broken  thread  of  his  discourse.  "  Quite  an  excep 
tional  race  in  many  ways.  The  Omaha  is  quite  as 
honest  as  the  white  man." 

"  That  is  a  truism!"  The  pencil-pusher  drove 
this  observation  between  the  minister's  words  like  a 
wedge. 

"  In  his  natural  state  he  was  much  more  so," 
uninterruptedly  continued  the  preacher;  he  was  used 
to  continuous  discourse.  "  I  have  been  told  by  many 
of  the  old  men  that  in  the  olden  times  an  Indian 
could  leave  his  tepee  for  months  at  a  time,  and  on 


280  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

his  return  would  find  his  most  valuable  possessions 
untouched.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  the  Indian  is  like 
a  prairie  flower  that  has  been  transplanted  from  the 
blue  sky  and  the  summer  sun  and  the  pure  winds  into 
the  steaming,  artificial  atmosphere  of  the  hothouse ! 
A  glass  roof  is  not  the  blue  sky!  Man's  talent  is 
not  God's  genius !  That  is  why  you  are  looking  at  a 
perverted  growth. 

"  Look  into  an  Indian's  face  and  observe  the  ruins 
of  what  was  once  manly  dignity,  indomitable  energy, 
masterful  prowess !  When  I  look  upon  one  of  these 
faces,  I  have  the  same  thoughts  as,  when  travelling 
in  Europe,  I  looked  upon  the  ruins  of  Rome. 

"  Everywhere  broken  arches,  fallen  columns, 
tumbled  walls !  Yet  through  these  as  through  a  mist 
one  can  discern  the  magnificence  of  the  living  city. 
So  in  looking  upon  one  of  these  faces,  which  are 
merely  ruins  in  another  sense.  They  were  once  as 
noble,  as  beautiful  as " 

In  his  momentary  search  for  an  eloquent  simile, 
the  minister  paused. 

"As  pumpkin  pies!"  added  the  newspaper  man 
with  a  chuckle;  and  he  whipped  out  his  notebook 
and  pencil  to  jot  down  this  brilliant  thought,  for  he 
had  conceived  a  very  witty  "  story  "  which  he  would 
pound  out  for  the  Sunday  edition. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Agency  Physician,  finally  sucked 
into  the  whirlpool  of  discussion,  "  it  seems  to  me  that 
there  is  no  room  for  crowing  on  either  "side.  Indians 
are  pretty  much  like  white  men;  livers  and  kidneys 


THE    LAST   THUNDER   SONG       281 

and  lungs,  and  that  sort  of  thing;  slight  difference  in 
the  pigment  under  the  skin.  I've  looked  into  the 
machinery  of  both  species  and  find  just  as  much  room 
in  one  as  the  other  for  a  soul!  " 

"  And  both  will  go  upward,"  added  the  minister. 

"  Like  different  grades  of  tobacco,"  observed  the 
Indian  Agent,  "  the  smoke  of  each  goes  up  in  the 
same  way." 

"Just  so,"  said  the  reporter;  "but  let  us  cut  out 
the  metaphysics.  I  wonder  when  this  magical  cuggie 
is  going  to  begin  his  humid  evolutions.  Lamentable, 
isn't  it,  that,  such  institutions  as  rain  prayers  should 
exist  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  Twentieth 
Century?" 

"  I  think,"  returned  the  minister,  "  that  the  Twen 
tieth  Century  has  no  intention  of  eliminating  God! 
This  medicine-man's  prayer,  in  my  belief,  is  as 
sacred  as  the  prayer  of  any  churchman.  The  differ 
ence  between  Wakunda  and  God  is  merely  ortho 
graphical." 

"  But,"  insisted  the  cynical  young  man  from  the 
city,  "  I  had  not  been  taught  to  think  of  God  as  of 
one  who  forgets!  Do  you  know  what  I  would  do 
if  I  had  no  confidence  in  the  executive  ability  of  my 
God?" 

Taking  the  subsequent  silence  as  a  question,  the 
young  man  answered :  "  Why,  I  would  take  a  day 
off  and  whittle  one  out  of  wood!  " 

"  A  youth's  way  is  the  wind's  way,"  quoted  the 
preacher,  with  a  paternal  air. 


282          THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

"  And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts;  but  what  is  all  this  noise  about?  "  returned 
the  reporter. 

A  buzz  of  expectant  voices  had  grown  at  one  end 
of  the  oval,  and  had  spread  contagiously  throughout 
the  elliptical  strip  of  shade.  For  with  slow,  majestic 
step  the  medicine-man,  Mahowari,  entered  the  en 
closure  and  walked  toward  the  centre.  The  fierce 
sun  emphasised  the  brilliancy  of  the  old  man's  gar 
ments  and  glittered  upon  the  profusion  of  trinkets, 
the  magic  heirlooms  of  the  medicine-man.  It  was 
not  the  robe  nor  the  dazzling  trinkets  that  caught 
the  eye  of  one  acquainted  with  Mahowari.  It  was 
the  erectness  of  his  figure,  for  he  had  been  bowed 
with  years,  and  many  vertical  suns  had  shone  upon 
the  old  man's  back  since  his  face  had  been  turned 
toward  the  ground.  But  now  with  firm  step  and 
form  rigidly  erect  he  walked. 

Any  sympathetic  eye  could  easily  read  the  thoughts 
that  passed  through  the  old  man's  being  like  an  elixir 
infusing  youth.  Now  in  his  feeble  years  would  come 
his  greatest  triumph!  To-day  he  would  sing  with 
greater  power  than  ever  he  had  sung.  Wakunda 
would  hear  the  cry.  The  rains  would  come !  Then 
the  white  men  would  be  stricken  with  belief! 

Already  his  heart  sang  before  his  lips.  In  spite 
of  the  hideous  painting  of  his  face,  the  light  of 
triumph  shone  there  like  the  reflection  of  a  great 
fire. 


THE   LAST   THUNDER   SONG       283 

Slowly  he  approached  the  circle  of  drummers  who 
sat  in  the  glaring  centre  of  the  ellipse  of  sunlight. 
It  was  all  as  though  the  First  Century  had  awakened 
like  a  ghost  and  stood  in  the  very  doorway  of  the 
Twentieth ! 

When  Mahowari  had  approached  within  a  yard 
of  the  drums,  he  stopped,  and  raising  his  arms  and 
his  eyes  to  the  cloudless  sky,  uttered  a  low  cry  like  a 
wail  of  supplication.  Then  the  drums  began  to 
throb  with  that  barbaric  music  as  old  as  the  world; 
a  sound  like  the  pounding  of  a  fever  temple,  with  a 
recurring  snarl  like  the  warning  of  a  rattlesnake. 

Every  sound  of  the  rejoicing  and  suffering  prairie 
echoes  in  the  Indian's  drum. 

With  a  slow,  majestic  bending  of  the  knees  and 
an  alternate  lifting  of  his  feet,  the  medicine-man 
danced  in  a  circle  about  the  snarling  drums.  Then 
like  a  faint  wail  of  winds  toiling  up  a  wooded  bluff, 
his  thunder  song  began. 

The  drone  and  whine  of  the  mysterious,  untrans 
latable  words  pierced  the  drowse  of  the  day,  lived 
for  a  moment  with  the  echoes  of  the  drums  among 
the  surrounding  hills,  and  languished  from  a  whisper 
into  silence.  At  intervals  the  old  man  raised  his 
face,  radiant  with  fanatic  ecstasy,  to  the  meridian 
glare  of  the  sun,  and  the  song  swelled  to  a  suppli 
cating  shout. 

Faster  and  faster  the  old  man  moved  about  the 
circle ;  louder  and  wilder  grew  the  song.  Those  who 


284  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

watched  from  the  shade  were  absorbed  in  an  intense 
silence,  which,  with  the  drowse  of  the  sultry  day, 
made  every  sound  a  paradox!  The  old  men  forgot 
their  pipes  and  sat  motionless. 

Suddenly,  at  one  end  of  the  covering,  came  the 
sound  of  laughter!  At  first  an  indefinite  sound  like 
the  spirit  of  merriment  entering  a  capricious  dream 
of  sacred  things;  then  it  grew  and  spread  until  it 
was  no  longer  merriment,  but  a  loud  jeer  of  derision! 
It  startled  the  old  men  from  the  intenseness  of  their 
watching.  They  looked  up  and  were  stricken  with 
awe.  The  young  men  were  jeering  this,  the  holiest 
rite  of  their  fathers! 

Slower  and  slower  the  medicine-man  danced; 
fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  song  and  ceased 
abruptly.  With  one  quick  glance,  Mahowari  saw 
the  shattering  of  his  hopes.  He  glanced  at  the  sky; 
but  saw  no  swarm  of  black  spirits  to  avenge  such 
sacrilege.  Only  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  the  glitter  of 
the  arid  zenith! 

In  that  one  moment,  the  temporary  youth  of  the 
old  man  died  out.  His  shoulders  drooped  to  their 
wonted  position.  His  limbs  tottered.  He  was  old 
again. 

It  was  the  Night  stricken  heart-sick  with  the 
laughter  of  the  Dawn.  It  was  the  audacious  Pres 
ent  jeering  at  the  Past,  tottering  with  years.  At  that 
moment,  the  impudent,  cruel,  brilliant  youth  called 
Civilisation  snatched  the  halo  from  the  grey  hairs 
of  patriarchal  Ignorance.  Light  flouted  the  rags 


THE    LAST   THUNDER   SONG       285 

of  Night.  A  clarion  challenge  shrilled  across  the 
years. 

Never  before  in  all  the  myriad  moons  had  such 
a  thing  occurred.  It  was  too  great  a  cause  to  pro 
duce  an  effect  of  grief  or  anger.  It  stupefied.  The 
old  men  and  women  sat  motionless.  They  could  not 
understand. 

With  uneven  step  and  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing, 
Mahowari  passed  from  among  his  kinsmen  and  tot 
tered  up  the  valley  toward  his  lonesome  shack  and 
tepee  upon  the  hillside.  It  was  far  past  noon  when 
the  last  of  the  older  Omahas  left  the  scene  of  the 
dance. 

The  greater  number  of  the  white  men  who  had 
witnessed  the  last  thunder  dance  of  the  Omahas 
went  homeward  much  pleased.  The  show  had 
turned  out  quite  funny  indeed.  "  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Did 
you  see  how  surprised  the  old  cuggy  looked?  He, 
he,  he !  "  Life,  being  necessarily  selfish,  argues  from 
its  own  standpoint. 

But  as  the  minister  rode  slowly  toward  his  home 
there  was  no  laughter  in  his  heart.  He  was  saying 
to  himself:  "  If  the  whole  fabric  of  my  belief  should 
suddenly  be  wrenched  from  me,  what  then?  "  Even 
this  question  was  born  of  selfishness,  but  it  brought 
pity. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  the  minister  mounted 
his  horse  and  rode  to  the  home  of  Mahowari,  which 
was  a  shack  in  the  winter  and  a  tepee  in  the  summer. 
Dismounting,  he  threw;  the  bridle  reins  upon  the 


286  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

ground,  and  raised  the  door  flap  of  the  tepee.  Ma- 
howari  sat  cross-legged  upon  the  ground,  staring 
steadily  before  him  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"  How !  "  said  the  minister. 

The  old  Indian  did  not  answer.  There  was  no 
expression  of  grief  or  anger  or  despair  upon  his  face. 
He  sat  like  a  statue.  Yet,  the  irregularity  of  his 
breathing  showed  where,  the  pain  lay.  An  Indian 
suffers  in  his  breast.  His  face  is  a  mask. 

The  minister  sat  down  in  front  of  the  silent  old 
man  and,  after  the  immemorial  manner  of  ministers, 
talked  of  a  better  world,  of  a  pitying  Christ,  and  of 
God,  the  Great  Father.  For  the  first  time  the  Indian 
raised  his  face  and  spoke  briefly  in  English : 

"God?    He  dead,  guess!" 

Then  he  was  silent  again  for  some  time. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  lit  up  with  a  light  that  was  not 
the  light  of  age.  The  heart  of  his  youth  had  awak 
ened.  The  old  memories  came  back  and  he  spoke 
fluently  in  his  own  tongue,  which  the  minister  under 
stood. 

"  These  times  are  not  like  the  old  times.  The 
young  men  have  caught  some  of  the  wisdom  of  the 
white  man.  Nothing  is  sure.  It  is  not  good.  I  can 
not  understand.  Everything  is  young  and  new.  All 
old  things  are  dead.  Many  moons  ago,  the  wisdom 
of  Mahowari  was  great.  I  can  remember  how  my 
father  said  to  me  one  day  when  I  was  yet  young  and 
all  things  lay  new  before  me :  *  Let  my  son  go  to  a 
high  hill  and  dream  a  great  dream ' ;  and  I  went  up 


THE   LAST   THUNDER   SONG       287 

in  the  evening  and  cried  out  to  Wakunda  and  I  slept 
and  dreamed. 

"  I  saw  a  great  cloud  sweeping  up  from  under  the 
horizon,  and  it  was  terrible  with  lightning  and  loud 
thunder.  Then  it  passed  over  me  and  rumbled  down 
the  sky  and  disappeared.  And  when  I  awoke  and  told 
my  people  of  my  dream,  they  rejoiced  and  said: 
*  Great  things  are  in  store  for  this  youth.  We  shall 
call  him  the  Passing  Cloud,  and  he  shall  be  a  thunder 
man,  keen  and  quick  of  thought,  with  the  keenness 
and  quickness  of  the  lightning;  and  his  name  shall 
be  as  thunder  in  the  ears  of  men.'  And  I  grew  and 
believed  in  these  sayings  and  I  was  strong.  But  now 
I  can  see  the  meaning  of  the  dream — a  great  light 
and  a  great  noise  and  a  passing." 

The  old  man  sighed,  and  the  light  passed  out  of 
his  eyes.  Then  he  looked  searchingly  into  the  face 
of  the  minister  and  said,  speaking  in  English : 

"  You  white  medicine-man.    You  pray?  " 

The  minister  nodded. 

Mahowari  turned  his  gaze  to  the  ground  and  said 
wearily : 

"  White  God  dead  too,  guess." 


XX 

THE   NEMESIS    OF  THE    DEUCES 

FRENCHY  called  for  two  cards  and  reached 
for  a  glass  and  the  bottle.  His  head  swam 
dizzily.  The  clinking  of  glasses  at  the  bar 
smote  upon  his  ears  like  gongs.  He  was  about  to 
risk  upon  one  "  show-down  "  the  realisation  of  a  five- 
years'  dream.  He  felt  certain  of  losing;  that  was  the 
strange  thing  about  it.  Yet  somewhere  in  the  buzz 
ing  back  of  his  head  a  compelling  little  devil  whis 
pered  and  he  obeyed. 

He  drank  three  big  ones  straight,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  things  stood  still  and  the  buzzing  ceased;  but 
in  the  sudden  silence  the  hissing  of  the  little  devil 
increased  to  a  roaring  like  the  river's  in  the  June 
rise.  "All  on  the  deuces!  All  on  the  deuces! 
Every  damned  cent!  "  That  is  what  the  little  devil 
in  the  back  of  his  head  was  howling  now. 

"  But  if  I  lose  it  all — and  wanting  to  go  back 
home  in  the  spring?  "  That  was  the  question  his 
pounding  heart  hurled  at  the  insistent  little  devil. 

"  You  won  once — didn't  you — didn't  you$ — 
DIDN'T  YOU?  "  howled  back  the  little  devil  jeer- 
ingly. 

"  Five  hundred,"  said  Frenchy  quietly.  His  bronze 
face  had  grown  livid;  his  black  eyes  narrowed  and 

288 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      289 

glittered  with  a  steady  stare.  With  a  hand  that  be 
trayed  the  least  perceptible  tremor,  he  pushed  the 
chips  to  the  centre. 

The  next  man  tossed  his  hand  into  the  discards. 
The  next  hesitated,  carefully  studying  the  face  of 
Frenchy  with  a  furtive  lifting  of  the  eyes  under  his 
hat  brim;  he  too  laid  down  his  hand. 

"  Raise  you  two  hundred,"  said  the  next  with  quiet 
cheerfulness. 

"  Two  hundred  more,"  said  the  next  nonchalantly, 
drumming  a  devil's  tattoo  with  his  fingers  on  the 
table. 

The  fifth  drew  a  long  breath,  grinned  nervously, 
showing  his  teeth  like  a  hungry  wolf — and  tossed  his 
hand  into  the  discards. 

It  was  now  up  to  Frenchy. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "  but  did  you  call  me?  " 

His  face  had  turned  a  dull,  ghastly  green,  but  his 
voice  was  quiet  and  clear. 

"  Raised  it." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  Thinking  of 
something  else — trip  home,  I  guess."  His  voice 
lowered  until  it  was  almost  inaudible.  This  absent- 
mindedness  was  unusual  for  Frenchy. 

An  oppressive  silence  had  fallen  in  the  barroom  of 
the  "  Big  6."  There  was  no  longer  any  clinking  of 
glasses  or  hum  of  maudlin  voices.  The  loungers 
drew  up  in  a  hushed  circle  about  the  table  and  stared 
with  fascinated  eyes.  A  "  big  game  "  was  on — and 
it  was  up  to  Frenchy.  Frenchy  was  no  quitter;  he 


29o  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

was  a  gambler  to  his  finger-tips.  "  Frenchy?  He'd 
bet  on  which'd  be  the  last  breath  of  his  dying 
mother!  "  That  was  the  way  the  popular  legend 
ran,  and  the  man  lived  up  to  it. 

"  Stake  it  all — stake  it  all  on  the  deuces — the 
deuces— THE  DEUCES!  "  The  little  devil  in  the 
back  of  his  head  was  shrieking  now  and  stamping 
red-hot  heels  into  Frenchy's  brain. 

"  But  the  trip  home — I've  planned  five  years " 

urged  his  pounding  heart. 

"  You  won  on  them  once — didn't  you? — didn't 
you?— DIDN'T  YOU?"  reiterated  the  little  devil. 

Frenchy  quietly  poured  out  another  glass  and 
downed  it.  Then  he  pulled  off  his  boots,  produced 
a  bunch  of  bills  from  the  bottom  of  each,  put  on  his 
boots  again  and  looked  at  his  hand. 

"  Come  two  thousand  more !  "  he  whispered. 

A  sound  of  deeper  breathing  grew  up  about  the  fas 
cinated  circle  of  on-lookers.  Frenchy  had  gone  into 
his  boots — they  knew  what  that  meant.  Would  the 
others  stay?  Would  they? 

The  place  became  uncanny  with  stillness.  Noth 
ing  moved  in  the  room.  The  circle  of  eyes  stared 
steadily  upon  the  three  who  sat  with  expressionless 
faces  blanched  with  the  pitiless  struggle  that  was 
going  on.  For  a  minute  that  seemed  endless  the 
soundless  battle  continued.  Psychic  forces  exchanged 
invisible  sword-thrusts  across  the  table.  Nerve 
wrestled  with  nerve  that  cowered  but  still  fought  on. 

The  whole  scene  vanished  for  Frenchy.    It  seemed 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      291 

to  him  that  he  was  the  centre  of  a  silent  hollowness; 
only  a  voice,  that  was  rather  an  ache  felt  than  a  sound 
heard,  kept  up  a  pitiless  jeering. 

"They'll  stay — they'll  stay,"  shrieked  the  little 
devil;  "your  bluff  won't  work — you're  a  dead 
horse  and  they're  crows — crows — crows  I  " 

"  They're  weakening!  "  beat  the  heart  of  Frenchy. 

"Deuces — ha,  ha!  Deuces!  And  they've  both 
got  face  cards — deuces — ho,  ho! — going  home,  eh? 
— win  on  deuces? — ho,  ho,  ho — deuces!"  The  in 
sistent  devil  laughed  spitefully. 

"  Raise  you  five  hundred  more!  " 

The  words  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  the  lonesome 
hollowness.  Frenchy  stared  at  his  cards. 

"  Five  hundred  more !  " 

Frenchy  winced  and  shivered.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a  long,  thin-bladed  knife  had  reached  out  of 
the  silent  hollow  that  surrounded  him  and  stabbed 
him  twice  in  the  breast. 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho !  "  went  the  little  devil  at  the  back 
of  his  head.  "  Stay  with  'em!  Put  up  the  horses — 
everything  on  the  deuces — ho,  ho,  ho!  " 

"  But  I  can  lay  down  now  and  save  the  horses," 
urged  the  sick  heart  of  Frenchy. 

"  You  won  on  the  deuces  once! "  shrieked  the 
little  devil;  "  didn't  you— DIDN'T  YOU?  " 

Frenchy  now  heard  his  own  voice  growing  up  out 
of  the  hollow.  "  Taken :  my  five  horses  and  outfit 
are  good  for  it." 

Then  he  emerged  from  the  soundless  hollow  and 


292  THE  LONESOME   TRAIL 

was  aware  of  the  circle  of  glittering  eyes  staring 
down  on  the  field  whereon  he  had  just  staked  five  years 
of  his  life  and  his  last  cherished  dream. 

"  Full  house — aces  on  queens." 

Frenchy  heard  the  words  and  grinned  exultantly. 
The  little  spiteful  devil  was  silent. 

"  Four  kings !  " 

Frenchy  dropped  his  cards  face  up  and  reached  for 
the  bottle.  "  Ho,  ho,  ho!"  went  the  little  devil, 
dancing  all  over  his  brain;  "everything  lost  on  the 
deuces — dead  horse  for  the  crows  to  pick! — he,  he, 
he!" 

A  ripple  of  exclamations  ran  about  the  circle  of 
loungers  as  they  leaned  forward  to  see  the  hand 
upon  which  Frenchy  had  staked  all  that  he  owned. 

"  Deuces !     By  the  jumping — four  dirty  deuces !  " 

"  Deuces  f" 

"  Four  of  'em." 

"How's  that  for  a  bluff?" 

"Fool  play!" 

A  buzzing  undertone  of  comment  filled  the  room 
and  steadily  grew  into  a  chattering  as  of  crows  about 
a  spot  where  something  has  just  died.  Frenchy 
seemed  not  to  hear;  he  was  busy  filling  and  refilling 
glasses.  The  man  with  the  four  kings  quietly  raked 
in  his  winnings.  "And  the  horses ?"  he  sug 
gested. 

Frenchy  set  the  drained  glass  down  with  a  bang, 
and  with  a  snake-like  forward  thrusting  of  the  head 
leered  hideously  at  the  winner.  "  Can't  you  shut  up 


THE    NEMESIS    OF   THE    DEUCES      293 

about  the  horses?"  He  forced  the  words  menac 
ingly  through  his  shut  teeth. 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  loungers  as  they  looked 
upon  the  pinched,  malignant  face  with  the  upper  lip 
lifted  quiveringly  and  the  close-set  teeth  showing 
beneath.  This  was  no  longer  the  Frenchy  of  legend ; 
that  Frenchy  had  always  been  known  as  one  who  lost 
or  won  large  sums  with  the  utter  nervelessness  of  a 
machine.  This  was  no  longer  the  face  of  Frenchy — 
the  gay,  careless,  haughty  face  of  him  who  flirted 
with  Fortune.  This  was  a  new  Frenchy — a  terrible 
Frenchy;  with  a  coiled  snake  lurking  just  behind 
each  glittering  eyeball.  This  face  sent  a  shiver 
through  the  crowd — like  the  sight  of  an  ugly  knife 
unsheathed  in  anger. 

The  loungers  with  affected  carelessness  began  to 
move  away.  With  a  lightning  sweep  of  the  hands 
Frenchy  drew  his  guns  and  banged  them  down  vio 
lently  on  the  table  before  him.  "  Stay  where  you  are, 
gentlemen!  "  he  said;  "  I'm  going  to  talk  and  I  want 
an  audience.  When  I'm  done  talking,  I'm  off  on  the 
long  trail  and  the  first  man  that  moves  goes  with 


me!' 


There  had  always  been  a  winsome  something  in 
the  voice  of  the  man.  It  was  now  commanding,  irre 
sistible.  The  loungers  stood  still  and  stared  dumb 
founded  upon  this  terrible  new  version  of  an  old 
legend. 

Frenchy  picked  up  four  cards  from  his  hand  and 
held  them  up  fanwise  before  his  enforced  listeners. 


294  THE    LONESOME    TRAIL 

"Look  at  'em!"  he  shouted  hoarsely.  "Look  at 
'em!  Let  'em  burn  through  your  hides  into  your 
souls !  Oh,  you  don't  see  anything,  eh  ?  Don't  one  of 
you  dare  to  grin!  " 

One  hand  fumbled  nervously  with  the  guns. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  I  say,  what  do  you  see  ?  Four 
deuces?  That  all?  I'll  tell  you  what  /  see.  I  see 
the  red,  warm  hearts  of  two  friends !  I  see  diamonds 
that  are  cheap  beside  such  hearts!  I  see  a  club — a 
black,  brutal,  treacherous  club — that  struck  down  a 
friend!  And  I  see  the  devil's  spades  that  dug  his 
grave !  That's  what  I  see !  Look  hard !  " 

Frenchy  seemed  to  exercise  an  uncanny  influence 
over  his  hearers.  Not  one  moved — all  stared  upon 
the  four  upheld  deuces. 

"  It's  the  devil's  story,  gentlemen,"  he  continued 
in  a  low,  husky  voice.  "  It's  hung  by  me  for  three 
bloody  years — it  haunts  me !  I've  got  to  tell  it." 

He  passed  his  free  hand  over  his  forehead  beaded 
with  sweat.  Then  he  whispered  a  question  to  the 
spellbound  audience: 

"  Did  any  of  you  know  the  Kid — Kid  Smith?  " 

A  momentary  expression  of  infinite  kindness  soft 
ened  the  face  of  Frenchy,  only  to  give  way  immedi 
ately  to  deep  quivering  lines  of  anguish.  He  con 
tinued  tremulously. 

"  I  knew  him — the  Kid.  Had  the  biggest,  brav 
est  heart  that  ever  beat  in  the  God-forsaken  white 
spaces  of  a  map.  One  of  that  breed  of  fellows  that 
the  world  nails  to  its  crosses — the  Kid  was.  And  we 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      295 

were  friends ;  that  is,  he  was  a  friend.  He  gave  and 
I  took,  and  he  was  happier  in  the  giving  than  I  in 
the  taking.  That's  the  way  it  always  goes:  one 
gives  and  one  takes — and  God  pity  the  man  that  only 
takes ! 

"  Why  did  I  bet  on  the  deuces?  Oh,  the  damned, 
dirty  deuces!  Don't  I  know  the  game?  By  God,  I 
know  every  card  like  a  kid  knows  his  mother's  face  I 
Didn't  I  know  it  was  the  last  ditch  for  me  and  no 
hope?  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  I  didn't  play  'em.  The 
Devil  played  'em  for  me — the  black  Devil  of  the 
dirty  deuces  with  the  fiery  feet  that  have  been  kick 
ing  me  hellward  for  three  aching  years ! 

"Look  at  the  cards!  Look  at  'em!  There's 
blood  on  every  one  of  'em,  and  they  stink  with  the 
writhing  flesh  of  a  friend  in  the  flames !  " 

Frenchy  took  another  drink  and  his  manner 
changed.  The  violence  of  his  delirious  outburst  gave 
way  to  quietness.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  penetrating 
voice,  and  the  black  flame  of  his  eyes  held  his  hearers. 

"  The  Kid  and  I  had  been  riding  across  a  big 
stretch  of  brown  grass  for  two  days,  and  our  tongues 
were  thick  with  thirst.  I  remember  how  he  gave 
me  the  last  drops  of  water  we  had  with  us,  cussing 
and  damning  a  man  who  got  thirsty.  *  I  can  go 
without  water  with  the  biggest  camel  that  ever  stuck 
a  hoof  into  the  sand,'  said  he.  And  I  took  the  water; 
I  always  took  and  the  Kid  was  always  giving. 

"  And  along  in  the  evening  we  struck  a  little 
water  hole  and  camped.  How  the  Kid  did  drink 


296  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

when  he  thought  I  wasn't  looking!  Oh,  he  wasn't 
such  a  camel  for  carrying  water  with  him  I  It  was 
his  big  heart  that  carried  the  water — the  sweet,  pure, 
sparkling  waters  of  friendship. 

"  Along  about  sundown  a  dull  grey  cloud  grew  up 
in  the  west — smoke!  But  the  wind  was  against  it, 
blowing  soft  and  dry  from  the  east  where  the  river 
lay  thirty  miles  away.  *  Think  we'd  better  ride  on?  ' 
says  the  Kid.  But  I  was  tired  and  wanted  sleep, 
and  the  Kid  gave  in.  Says  he,  '  Horses  need  a  rest, 
I  guess  ' ;  didn't  lay  it  onto  me,  you  know.  Giving 
again,  and  I  taking. 

"  So  we  lariated  the  horses  and  rolled  in.  Do  you 
know  how  a  man  sleeps  after  he's  been  burning  dry 
for  days  and  fills  up  at  last?  I  plunged  into  ten 
thousand  fathoms  of  soft,  soft  sleep — deep,  deep 
down,  where  the  cool  sweet  dreams  bloom  in  worlds 
of  crystal.  And  everywhere  in  my  sleep  there  were 
bubbling  springs  and  I  drank  and  drank  and  drank, 
and  every  gulp  was  sweeter  than  the  last. 

"  Then  the  dreams  changed  and  the  many  bub 
bling  water  holes  of  sleep  went  dry,  and  fine  hot  dust 
sprayed  up  out  of  the  chinks  where  the  water  had 
flowed.  Then  the  wind  of  sleep  grew  hot  and  hotter. 
It  scorched  my  face  and  sent  thin  needles  of  fire 
into  my  brain.  And  then  I  was  standing  up  cough 
ing  and  rubbing  my  eyes  and  the  Kid  was  beside 
me.  What  did  we  see? 

"  The  wind  had  veered  about  while  we  slept.    All 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      297 

hell  was  climbing  up  the  west  and  a  booming  wind 
swept  howling  devils  through  the  smoky  twilight. 
Above  the  unnatural  dawn,  long  black  ragged  arms 
reached  out  into  the  zenith  and  cloaked  the  stars.  I 
heard  a  horse  snorting  and  tugging  at  his  lariat. 

"  '  Good  God,  Kid!  '  I  wheezed;     '  let's  be  off !  ' 

'  The  Kid  turned  his  face  upon  me  and  smiled — 
that  slow,  brave  smile  haunts  me  night  and  day. 

"  4  Your  horse  is  gone '  He  waved  his  hand 

toward  the  miles  of  dark  that  stretched  toward  the 
river.  '  Pulled  his  stake  just  before  you  woke 
up;  heard  him  go/  The  Kid's  voice  didn't  even 
tremble. 

"  '  Quick!  '  I  yelled;  '  the  matches!  Start  a  back 
fire!' 

*  Then  a  big,  cold  hand  gripped  my  heart;  the 
Kid  had  given  me  the  last  match  that  day;  I  had 
wanted  to  smoke. 

"  All  hell  behind  us  and  a  horse  for  two !  A  thirty- 
mile  heat  with  the  mustangs  of  the  Devil,  and  double 
weight  to  carry!  It  made  me  sick — dizzy  sick.  I 
forgot  everything.  Oh,  gentlemen,  when  you  face 
hell  fire  you'll  know  if  your  mother  bore  a  coward. 

"  For  a  minute  we  stared  into  the  west — a  minute 
years  long.  Big  pink  waves  of  smoke  rolled  into 
gulfs  of  purple  and  disappeared  into  holes  of  murk. 
Above,  the  blood-red  surf  frothed  and  sparkled  and 
fell  in  yellow  showers !  Great  blankets  of  dense 
gloom  dropped  from  the  sky  and  smothered  out 


298  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

the  hellish  morning,  hurling  momentary  night  down 
the  howling  wind!  Then  keen  zigzag  blades  of 
fire  ripped  through  the  belly  of  the  night ! 

"  I  felt  the  Kid's  hand  grasp  mine.  O  God  1  the 
feel  of  his  hand !  4  One  horse  for  two,  Frenchy,'  he 
said,  quiet  as  a  man  who  proposes  another  drink  at 
the  bar.  '  One  of  us  makes  a  run  for  his  life;  and 

the  other '  He  motioned  carelessly  toward  Hell. 

4  One  more  deal  of  the  cards,  Frenchy,  and  the  last 
for  one  of  us.  High  hand  takes  the  horse;  low  hand 
— produce  the  deck.' 

"I  produced  the  deck — greasy  and  dog-eared;  for 
many's  the  social  game  the  Kid  and  I  had  played 
with  'em  together.  We  squatted  on  the  prairie  in 
the  red  twilight,  and  the  Kid  dealt.  Not  a  tremor 
of  his  perfect  gambler's  hands!  Cool  as  though  it 
was  a  game  of  penny  ante. 

"  I  drew  three  deuces !  Deuces!  Oh,  the  damned, 
dirty  deuces! 

"  '  How  many?'  says  the  Kid  pleasantly.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  forgot  to  guard  my  hand. 
A  deep  rolling  thunder  had  grown  up  out  of  the 
burning  west.  It  seemed  I  could  feel  the  prairies 
tremble  like  a  bridge  under  a  drove  of  sheep.  '  Lis 
ten !'  I  gasped.  '  It's  the  critters  coming,'  said  the 
Kid ;  *  cattle  and  buffalo  and  elk  and  deer  and 
wolves — the  whole  posse.  How  many  cards  did 
you  call  for? — two,  wasn't  it?' 

"  He  thrust  two  cards  into  my  hand.  One  of  'em 
was  the  deuce  of  hearts!  O  God!  It  wasn't  only 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      299 

the  printed  heart  he  gave  me;  it  was  the  warm,  red, 
beating  heart  of  a  friend." 

Frenchy  dropped  his  head  into  his  arms  on  the 
table  and  groaned.  When  he  lifted  his  face  again 
his  eyes  were  wet. 

"  Four  deuces — and  they  burn  holes  in  the  dark 
whenever  I  shut  my  eyes!  And  all  day  I  see  four 
pairs  of  devils  dancing  in  the  sunlight  till  my  head 
swims!  " 

Frenchy  dropped  his  head  upon  his  chest  and 
breathed  deep,  uneven  breaths  for  a  space. 

"  The  Kid  had  only  a  pair  of  face-cards,"  he  con 
tinued;  "  a  dinky  little  pair  of  face-cards.  And  for 
a  second  the  man  in  me  came  to  the  surface,  and  I 
threw  the  four  hand  down  and  stamped  on  it  and 
said  I  wouldn't  leave  him.  And  what  did  the  Kid 
do?  Began  with  all  the  blackguard  adjectives  of 
the  language  and  ended  with  '  coward  '  and  threw 
the  bunch  in  my  teeth.  *  You're  the  first  man  that 
ever  called  me  a  quitter,  Frenchy,'  he  said.  '  I  played 
my  hand,  didn't  I?  What  would  you  do  to  a  man 
who'd  ask  you  to  take  your  money  back  when  you'd 
lost?  If  I'd  won,  do  you  think  I  wouldn't  leave 
your  carcass  here  to  stew,  you  cussed  fool  ? ' 

"  And  then  something  in  the  back  of  my  head 
woke  up  and  howled :  *  You  won — it's  yours — a 
chance  for  life — fair  play — he'd  go  if  you  lost — 
he'd  go !  '  And  there  was  a  roaring  in  my  head  and 
the  flaming  night  whirled  'round,  and  the  bitter  words 
stung  me,  and  my  heart  hardened — and — I — went. 


300  THE   LONESOME    TRAIL 

"  I  found  the  Kid's  horse  saddled  and  bridled.  I 
cut  the  lariat  and  leaped  astride.  I  jabbed  the  spike 
spurs  into  the  frightened  brute  till  he  roared  with 
pain.  I  had  forgotten  everything.  I  was  a  Fear 
without  a  body  flying  through  a  darkness  that 
coughed  smoke  and  spit  light.  And  then  at  last 
things  quit  whirling,  and  I  felt  the  steady  lift,  lift, 
lift  of  the  good  brute  racing  with  all  the  devils  down 
a  heart-breaking  stretch  for  the  river. 

"  I  turned  about  in  the  saddle.  Half  the  sky 
had  turned  into  an  open  furnace !  Above  me  a  great 
stormy  ocean  of  blood  rolled  on  into  the  twilight 
of  the  east !  Blood ! — a  seething,  billowy  sea  of  red 
blood,  with  great,  red,  purring  cat-tongues  lapping 
it  greedily!  Gaudy  giant  flowers — purple,  yellow, 
red,  green — bloomed  for  a  moment  in  a  strange  gar 
den  of  dreams,  and  nodded  in  the  wind  and  fell  and 
bloomed  again  and  fell !  The  infernal  beauty  of  the 
thing  fascinated  me  for  a  moment.  Then  I  heard 
the  rumbling — the  unceasing  thunder.  It  was  louder 
than  before.  I  thought  of  the  ten  thousand  sharp 
hoofs  gaining,  gaining,  with  whips  of  fire  lashing 
them  in  the  rear.  And  then  I  thought  of  the  Kid 
back  there. 

"  My  heart  sickened.  The  hot  wind  that  scorched 
my  face  accused  me;  the  choking  air  accused  me.  I 
could  see  him  lying  on  his  face  even  then  with  the 
mad  hoofs  beating  him  into  a  pulp;  I  could  see  the 
writhing  of  his  body  as  the  heat  increased;  I  could 
smell  the  stench  of  his  sizzling  flesh ! 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      301 

"  I  reeled  in  the  saddle,  yet  the  mad  wish  to  live 
lashed  my  hands  to  the  pommel.  But  this  was  only 
for  a  moment.  The  meanest  worm  that  ever  wrig 
gled  in  a  dunghill  holds  fast  to  his  life.  I  forgot  the 
Kid  again;  I  remembered  only  myself  and  that  I 
must  ride  to  win.  I  pulled  the  horse  down  and  held 
him  steady.  Never  did  I  throw  a  leg  across  a  better 
horse  than  the  Kid's — honest,  rangy,  clean-limbed 
and  deep  in  the  chest!  My  heart  leaped  with  joy 
when  I  heard  his  long  even  breathing.  I  had  a  great 
delirious  love  for  the  big-hearted  brute  as  I  felt 
his  long,  even  reach,  the  tireless  rhythmic  stride  that 
throws  the  miles  behind.  The  drifting  red  sea  of 
smoke  above  cast  the  wild  glare  down  upon  the  prai 
rie  and  made  the  footing  sure.  I  threw  my  guns 
away;  I  stripped  off  my  coat  and  gave  it  to  the  wind. 
I  knew  what  an  extra  pound  might  mean. 

"  An  elk  forged  slowly  past,  his  wide  antlers 
tipped  with  light.  An  antelope  sprang  up  and 
bounded  away  into  the  twilight  ahead.  A  coyote 
leaped  from  a  shoe-string  clump;  he  cowered  and 
whined  like  a  whipped  dog  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs,  then  raced  away  down  the  wind.  Snorting 
shadows  began  to  move  to  right  and  left  in  the 
further  gloom  and  disappear  in  the  smoke-drift.  I 
was  now  a  part  of  the  ragged  edge  of  the  flotsam 
tossed  up  by  the  approaching  lip  of  the  flood.  I 
gave  my  horse  another  inch  of  rein  and  held  him 
steady.  The  thunder  in  the  rear  grew  louder;  I 
could  hear  dimly  the  wild  confusion  of  animal  cries. 


302  THE   LONESOME   TRAIL 

I  was  the  fox  hearing  the  yelp  of  the  hounds  and 
racing  for  cover. 

"  Years  and  years  of  flight  with  the  breath  of  an 
oven  to  breathe!  Years  and  years  of  rising  and 
falling,  rising  and  falling,  and  my  throat  was  tight 
with  the  driving  smoke.  The  good  brute  began  to 
wheeze  and  cough.  I  felt  the  tremor  of  his  weary 
ing  muscles,  the  slight  unsteadiness  of  the  knees. 
I  prayed  for  the  river — prayed  like  a  kid  at  his 
mother's  knee.  I  begged  the  brute  to  keep  his  legs; 
I  cursed  him  when  he  tottered;  I  called  him  baby 
names  and  damned  him  in  a  breath. 

"  And  after  years  the  day  began — a  sneaking 
shadow  of  a  day,  shamed  out  by  the  howling  western 
dawn  that  met  it  on  the  run.  A  storm  of  sound  was 
all  about  me.  Neck  and  neck  I  raced  with  a  buffalo 
bull  that  led  the  herd;  his  swollen  tongue  hung  from 
his  foaming  mouth;  his  breath  rumbled  in  his  throat. 
Wheezing  steers  toiled  up  about  me.  Deer  and  elk 
raced  side  by  side,  slowly  forging  into  the  van.  Grey 
wolves  bounded  past,  whining  and  yelping.  And  my 
good  brute  beat  away  bravely  at  the  few  remaining 
miles.  I  felt  the  dry  rasp  of  his  lungs  and  the  break 
ing  of  his  big,  strong  heart.  He  stumbled — I  gave 
him  the  spur  to  the  heel;  he  gave  no  sign  of  pain. 
He  was  dying  on  his  feet. 

"  And  the  cheap,  dirty  day  crept  in  through  the 
smoke — and  I  thought  of  the  Kid,  and  lost  heart 
and  cared  no  more  about  the  race.  But  by  and  by  I 
saw  the  river  ahead,  and  we  plunged  in — a  howling, 


THE    NEMESIS    OF    THE    DEUCES      303 

panting  flood  of  beasts,  struggling  for  the  farther 
shore. 

"  The  sky  and  the  river  whirled  about  me.  I 
felt  my  horse  totter  up  a  sandbank  and  fall.  Then 
the  day  went  out,  and  I  forgot. 

"  O  God !  I  wish  I'd  never  waked  up !  Why 
didn't  the  buffalo  and  the  steers  beat  me  into  the 
sand?  Why  did  I  wake  up?  " 

Frenchy  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  the 
tears  trickled  through  his  fingers. 

"  But  the  dead  horse  parted  the  herd,  and  I  woke 
up  and  the  fire  was  dead  and  the  sun  looked  like  a 
moon  through  the  smoke.  Three  aching  years  ago, 
it  was;  and  I've  dragged  my  carcass  about  and  tried 
to  look  like  a  man.  But  night  and  day  the  deuces 
have  followed  me  and  tortured  me.  They  burn 
holes  in  the  dark  whenever  I  shut  my  eyes;  four 
pairs  of  devils  dance  before  me  all  day  in  the  sun 
light  till  my  head  whirls." 

Frenchy  picked  up  the  four  deuces  and  held  them 
tremblingly  before  the  staring  crowd. 

"  Look  at  'em !  Let  'em  burn  through  your  hides 
into  your  souls!  There's  the  blood  of  the  Kid  on 
'em.  The  damned  dirty  deuces!  They've  got  me 
in  the  last  ditch!  I'm  done!  " 

Frenchy  crushed  the  cards  and  dashed  them  to  the 
floor.  He  arose  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  took  his  guns 
and  staggered  out  of  the  barroom  of  the  "  Big  6." 


J 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD21A-60m-6,'69 
(J9096slO)476-A-32 


General  Librar 
University  of  Ca' 
Berkeley 


u.  c 


M555071 


